65
Tristan POV
We walk through the night market, weaving past the lantern-strung stalls, the fires burning low in their metal pits, smoke curling into the night sky.
Ember walks ahead of me, moving with purpose, her bare feet silent on the cobbles. Her hair bounces with each step, the beads at her hips catching the firelight. The air is thick with the scents of spiced wine, sweat, sex, and something deeper—anticipation, longing.
I trail behind her, keeping pace but not daring to walk at her side. Not yet.
She pauses at one of the stalls, buying a small packet of herbs or powder—probably some charm or offering. She doesn't speak. I don't either.
A few wolves call greetings. Some eye me with curiosity or suspicion. A few glance between us, sensing the tension, but wisely keep their mouths shut.
We keep moving.
