The air snapped with tension long before the wolves arrived.
I was on patrol with two warriors near the eastern woods, the world still soft with dawn’s light, when the forest fell silent. Not the peaceful quiet after night — a hush that felt watched. Primal nerves thrummed through my muscles.
“Stop,” I whispered. My senses screamed. We halted. The blades in our hands trembled in half-drawn reflex.
Then it began — the sky above blackened, as if the world’s breath had been stolen. A wind whipped through the trees, bending them low. A low chant echoed: guttural, ancient, powerful.
And then he stepped forward.
The man from nightmares. Sophia’s grandfather. Erion.
