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Serayah Morgan. I see the scourge in his face. He is about to say and do something. Being this close, I feel something come off me—the chill that makes him a Frostfang and it crawls all over my skin. It’s intimidating and scary—but then the prince in my arms lets out a soft coo.That small sound is like a thread pulling him back from the brink. Roar shifts, anchoring himself, and instead of unleashing whatever anger is brimming under the surface, he turns forward. The reporters don’t let up, cameras flashing like they’re trying to steal pieces of us with every shot. I dare to lift my head. Only to find a sea of faces beyond the barricades—a seemingly endless crowd, waving flags, holding posters, cameras that have become weapons. They look almost inhuman, like zombies from some apocalyptic