The rogue camp was a bastion of tension, barricades lined with spikes, air filled with the scent of pine and fear. It was barely dawn, the sky a bruising shade of purple, when I sat, huddled, next to the central firepit, with the stolen letters that confirmed Gavyn Holt's apathy and his wrongdoings. The crescent mark pulsed silver just beneath my sleeve, the enhanced strength of my body a restless hum through my veins, but my mind was sharper, and it raced with plans to show the evidence to Torin and end the war. Kael was at my side, the mate bond humming from his silent power, his scarred face forbidding. We'd fought so hard for this truth — Gavyn's coded messages to the Blackfangs, his framing of Kael five years ago — and I wasn't going to lose it.