Her golden eye gleamed, the scar over her right eye catching the dim glow of the fireplace. The memory of that battle lingered, but it no longer haunted her. She had claimed victory, not only over the former leader but over the expectations forced upon her.

A soft creak of the grand oak door echoed through the space. She didn't turn, but her ears twitched at the familiar rhythm of their footsteps. Her chosen one. No guards intervened; none dared. They belonged to her now, after all.

“You’re late,” Sylara murmured, her voice low and smooth. Yet no anger laced her words. The presence of her mate was enough to soothe even her harshest moods.