Rhaegar lifted his head and stared at the clouds gathering above him.
The day of the beasts' departure had been marked by unusually ominous weather—far from typical for the peak of summer. The sky, a shade of gray that mirrored the smoke he was exhaling, seemed as heavy as his heart.
As Naveen had observed, he no longer needed to smoke his herbal cigars. But even so, the pain still clung to him, relentless and gnawing.
It was a dull ache, yet so intense that it felt as if he might climb the walls, howl at the heavens, claw at his own skin, tear everything apart—destroying everything and everyone in his path. There was no escape, no relief. It felt as though he were slipping into madness.
'Is this what it feels like to lose your mate?' he wondered, his question directed toward his wolf, but the beast remained silent.
