A Dance of Shadows
The packhouse hummed with subdued energy as the small gathering unfolded. The low murmur of conversation and soft clink of goblets filled the air, but despite the warmth of the room, tension coiled like a predator in the shadows. Isla sat at a long table, her silver hair shimmering under the candlelight, trying to ignore the gaze that never seemed to leave her.
Malrik sat directly across from her, his posture too casual to be sincere. His sharp features, pale and almost sickly, carried a subtle arrogance, and his gray eyes gleamed with something between intrigue and malice.
“Tell me, Luna,” Malrik began, his voice cutting through the din with practiced ease, “how does it feel to be the queen of Crimson Fang? A heavy crown, I imagine.”
Isla’s eyebrow arched, her tone calm but cutting. “It’s not a crown. It’s a responsibility.”
Malrik chuckled softly, his lips curling into a smirk. “Responsibility. A noble word for such a… precarious position.” He paused, swirling the wine in his goblet before continuing. “Draven always did have an eye for strong women. Though I wonder…” He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. “Has he told you everything?”
The room fell silent, the laughter and chatter snuffed out as Draven’s growl rumbled across the room like distant thunder. “Enough, Malrik,” he said, his amber eyes flashing a warning.
Malrik leaned back in his chair, his smirk widening. “Touchy, aren’t we, brother? A man with nothing to hide wouldn’t mind a harmless conversation.”
Draven’s hands curled into fists, but before he could reply, Isla placed a hand on his arm. “Let it go,” she murmured softly, though her eyes never left Malrik’s.
Later, as the gathering dispersed and the packhouse dimmed, Isla confronted Draven in their quarters. The air between them crackled with unresolved tension.
“What is your problem, Draven?” she demanded, her silver eyes sharp as she turned to face him. “Every time Malrik so much as breathes near me, you act like it’s a personal attack.”
Draven’s expression darkened, his jaw tight. “Because it is,” he replied, his voice clipped.
“Why?” Isla pressed, stepping closer. “If there’s something I should know, then tell me. Don’t just bark orders and expect me to obey blindly.”
Draven turned away, his broad shoulders rigid with suppressed anger. “Stay away from him, Isla,” he said, his voice low and controlled. “That’s all you need to know.”
“No,” she snapped, her frustration spilling over. “That’s not enough. If you won’t tell me the truth, don’t expect me to stay in the dark.”
