Inside The Warren, we were protected. But outside was chaos—wind screaming, debris hammering against the cliff face, the whole world reduced to violence.
"How long?" I asked.
"Day. Maybe more." Drav had settled in the deepest chamber, back against the wall. "These storms are rare but when they come, they don't stop quickly."
A day. Trapped in this small space, existing in each other's presence.
The bond hummed between us—constant awareness of each other that had become as natural as breathing. His calm settled my own nerves despite the situation. I could feel his satisfaction that we were together, protected, safe.
I moved to sit beside him. "At least Kethar can't attack in this."
"No. The storm grounds everyone. We're all waiting it out." He pulled me against his side. "But when it clears, they'll come. Soon."
"Are we ready?"
"We will be."
We sat in silence for a while. The storm raged outside, wind shrieking like something dying. Inside, the copper-green veins pulsed gently, providing just enough light to see by.
"I can feel you thinking," Drav said. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. Just..." I pressed closer to his warmth. "We've been so focused on survival. On the hunt, the claiming, defending territory. We haven't really talked."
"What do you want to talk about?"
Everything. Nothing. Things that seemed important before I stepped through that portal and became someone else entirely.
"Tell me about the females who came before me," I said. "You mentioned thirteen. What happened to them?"
He was quiet for a long moment. I sensed his reluctance—not anger, just pain. Old wounds he didn't like examining.
"The first three died before I could reach them," he said finally. "Environmental hazards. Falls. One was taken by a cliff wyrm." His arm tightened around me. "The next five... they couldn't adapt. The tonic was too much for them. Some broke mentally before physically. Some just refused to eat, to function. All five chose to go home on day thirty."
"And the other five?"
"Three were stolen by younger males before I could claim them properly." He paused, and layers of grief hit me. "Two accepted the bite. Started transformation. But they couldn't handle the pain. Both asked me to stop, to let them go home. I did. They died during extraction."
The grief in his voice was crushing, made worse by feeling it directly through the bond—guilt, failure, loneliness compounded over seasons.
"That's why you tested me so hard," I said. "Before claiming me. You needed to know I could survive."
"Yes."
"And the transformation? Why did it kill them?"
"Because I rushed it. Was too desperate. Didn't give their bodies enough time to adapt before initiating the change." His hand found mine. "I won't make that mistake with you. When your transformation happens, it will be because you're ready. Not because I'm dying."
I turned to look at him. "You were dying?"
"The unbonded sickness. Without a mate, my body temperature drops. Wing membranes fail. Organs shut down slowly." His eyes met mine. "I had maybe one more season before it killed me. You were my last chance."
The weight of that settled between us. I wasn't just his mate—I was the thing keeping him alive.
"Your turn," he said. "Why did you take the deal? Forty-seven percent survival rate. Most humans refuse."
I'd known this question was coming eventually.
"My mother." The words came easier than I expected. "She worked in the factories. Underground manufacturing, Sector 23. Eighteen-hour shifts, toxic fumes, no ventilation." I stared at the glowing veins on the wall. "Her lungs gave out. Progressive deterioration. She fought it for years but they couldn't save her."
