The path to the Ashwalkers wasn’t marked on any map. It didn’t exist in coordinates or trails or whispered rumors. It was something older—buried in instinct, fire, and bloodline. Emma had no compass for it, only the dull ache in her soul that tugged her forward and the flickering pulse of the Heart Ember inside her chest. Three days after returning to Sterling Creek, Emma stood at the southern ridge of the Blacktooth Range, staring at a gorge so deep it seemed to bleed shadow. Steve stood at her side, expression hard, while Marcus examined the old stone totems that jutted up from the earth like jagged fingers. “I’ve never seen these before,” Marcus said, running his palm across one of the carvings. “Definitely not from any of the old packs.” “They’re older than the packs,” Long said, emerging from the shadows behind them in her human form. Sh
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