The cabin was a quiet, fragile space, filled with a tension that clung to the air like smoke. The only sounds were the faint crackle of the fire in the corner and the ragged breaths escaping Draven's lips as he sat in the center of the room, fighting to control the raging storm of power within him. His head was bowed, eyes closed, and his hands rested on his knees, trembling slightly. The others stood around him, watching with a mixture of concern and helplessness.
Aurelia, usually brash and filled with sarcasm, seemed unnervingly quiet. Her gaze never left Draven, her fiery red hair casting a soft glow in the firelight. Lyan stood by the window, his eyes darting between Draven and Anastasia. It was Anastasia who looked the most lost—her expression filled with confusion and uncertainty. She still bore the aftershocks of what had happened, her hands clutched together, fingers twisting anxiously.
