Through the Bone Gate

The Bone Gate rose before us like the ribs of some ancient beast, its skeletal arches slick with frost and veined in black moss.

The air here was wrong — too still, too heavy — as though every sound was swallowed before it could echo.

Even the snow didn’t dare fall past the threshold; flakes drifted down, only to dissolve into nothing before touching the jagged stones beyond.

My pulse beat high in my throat. I could feel it — not fear exactly, but something older, older than my name, older than my pack’s history.

It hummed against my bones, urging me forward even as my body screamed to turn back.

Draven’s grip tightened on my wrist.

“Don’t look at it too long,” he said, voice low, molten gold eyes scanning the curve of the gate as if expecting it to lunge at us. “The Bone Gate… remembers faces.”

“What does that even mean?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

“It means…” He paused, jaw clenching, and for a fraction of a second something flickered in his expression — not the cold,