Draven stepped forward, his heavy leather boots crushing the smoldering ash on the floorboards.
I blinked through the stinging haze, my eyes frantically tracking his silhouette before my gaze darted past him to find Elara.
She was slumped over his broad shoulder, completely unconscious but entirely unharmed; miraculously, the greedy, lapping flames hadn't touched a single thread of her clothes.
Stephen stood a few paces away, his serene smirk finally fracturing into a cold, guarded mask. With a sharp, metallic shwip, he drew his blade, the steel glinting dangerously in the firelight.
"You're a second too late, Duke," Stephen warned, shifting into a low, lethal combat stance. "The South owns this night. And your wife belongs to me."
