Chapter 16: The Whispering Peaks

Three weeks after the defeat of the Sunken Fang, the Crescent Citadel was finally settling into a steady, peaceful rhythm. But peace in the Northern Ridge was a fragile thing.

I stood in the armory room, strapping leather vambraces over my forearms while Nikolai inspected a fresh supply of iron-tipped arrows. The dawn air carried a biting chill, sharper than usual for this time of season, sweeping down from the eastern peaks of the Whispering Range.

"The reports came in late last night," Nikolai said, leaning against the weapon rack, his golden eyes fixed on me with a quiet concern. "Captain Torin sent three riders back from Frostfall. It's not a border dispute or rogue skirmish this time."

I adjusted the strap on my shoulder sheath, feeling the subtle, comforting hum of the Sovereign's Edge against my back. "What is it?"

"A sickness," he replied, his brow furrowing. "A strange lethargy. It’s affecting the newly settled rogue families in the eastern valley. The village elders say the young wolves are waking up drained, their inner spirits flickering like dying candles."

"A physical fever?"

"No," Nikolai said, shaking his head. "Torin says there are no physical symptoms. No cough, no poison. Just wolves losing their connection to their inner beasts."

A sudden, sharp prickle flared beneath my collarbone. I gasped softly, pressing my hand over my tunic as the crimson crescent mark pulsed with a sudden, localized heat—not painful, but a distinct, vibrating warning.

Nikolai was across the room in a second, his hand resting gently against my back. "Elora?"

"The mark," I whispered, looking up at him as the heat settled into a slow, rhythmic throb. "It reacted the moment you mentioned the eastern valley. Something is pulling on the ambient magic."

"Then we don't send a scout squad," Nikolai decided, his voice hardening into that of a commander. "We go ourselves."

By mid-morning, Nikolai and I, accompanied by a small escort of five southern riders, crested the rocky ridge overlooking Frostfall. The village was nestled in a deep, pine-forested basin at the base of the Whispering Peaks. Normally, a settlement of two hundred wolves would hum with activity—wood being chopped, children running, the low rumble of territory chatter.

Today, Frostfall was eerily silent.

We rode down the winding dirt path, the hooves of our horses muffled by damp pine needles. As we entered the village square, Captain Torin stepped out from the main timber hall to meet us, his face pale and drawn.

"My Queen. Prince Nikolai," Torin greeted, bowing his head before ushering us toward the hall. "I'm glad you came quickly. It's getting worse."

Inside the timber hall, a dozen wolves lay on wooden cots wrapped in thick furs. Among them were two young children, their skin pale and damp with cold sweat. I knelt beside a young girl no older than ten. Her breathing was shallow, and when I reached out to touch her forehead, I felt no warmth—only a hollow, vacant chill.

I closed my eyes and extended my royal magic, letting a thin strand of violet aura flow from my fingers into her chest.

Instead of sensing a fever or illness, my magic hit a void. Her inner wolf wasn't sick—it was being slowly, methodically siphoned away, pulled by an invisible tether leading toward the mountains.

"She's being drained," I said, standing up and turning to Nikolai and Torin. "Her wolf power is being drawn out through a blood tether."

"By who?" Torin asked, his hand dropping to his sword pommel. "We swept the perimeter three times. No enemy scents, no intruders."

"Look closer at the village itself," I commanded, a unsettling realization taking root in my mind.

We stepped back outside into the frosty afternoon air. I walked slowly along the perimeter of the timber hall, tracing my hand along the foundation stones buried in the soil. Beneath a layer of damp moss and dirt, my fingers struck a sharp, unnatural groove in the rock.

I wiped the dirt away with my glove.

Carved deep into the granite was an ancient rune—a jagged, inverted crescent surrounded by three weeping eyes, filled with dried, blackened blood.

Nikolai knelt beside me, staring at the marking, his golden eyes narrowing in immediate recognition. "This isn't wolf magic. This is blood-weaving."

"The inverted crescent," I whispered, the mark on my shoulder throbbing violently in response. "It's the mark of the corrupted orders... those who served the First Guardians' fallen counterparts before the great exile."

"I thought the Crimson Cult was wiped out a century ago," Torin muttered, stepping back from the carved stone in disgust.

"They weren't wiped out," I said, standing up as a cold wind howled down from the high peaks of the Whispering Range. "They were waiting. These runes are act as siphon points, channeling the life force of these wolves straight up into the mountains."

Nikolai stood beside me, drawing his twin daggers as his golden aura flared defensively around us. "Where does the tether lead?"

I looked up toward the jagged, snow-capped summit of Mount Voros looming in the distance. The sky above its highest peak was taking on a faint, ominous reddish hue as the sun began to set.

"To the high ridge," I answered, my voice steady despite the chill creeping down my spine. "Something is awakening up there, Nikolai. And it's coming for my blood."