Semua Bab The Lunar Legacy : Bab 41 - Bab 50

Sam stepped to the firepit, green eyes sweeping—Mara’s blade, Jasper’s twig, Lila’s map, pups’ murmurs, Kevin’s gaze. Her tattoo pulsed, Luna’s purr a call—Lead, Sam, unite them. “Pack,” she said, voice clear, resonant, flames leaping, casting her shadow long. “The cave’s alive—blood altar, runes, fresh kills. It’s called the Iron Veil, a curse older than Zane, tied to blood, frost, a pack beyond the ridge.” Her staff gleamed, green eyes fierce, the iron scent a faint sting in her lungs.Kevin crossed to her, amber eyes locked on hers, pine scent wrapping her, mind-link humming—her fire, his vow. Shade growled, steady. She’s steel, pup—plan, guard. “Frostborn Pack,” he said, voice low, map in hand, ridges inked in charcoal. “Cora’s visions, Mara’s report—runes match the claw marks. We hit their camp, Sam—scouts first, fast.” His hand grazed her hip, claw mark tattoo pulsing, a vow in every touch.Cora’s voice trembled, amulet glowing, gray eyes piercing, braids swaying. “The Veil’s he

The Dawn Pack’s clearing lay hushed under the tender blush of dawn, the packhouse a steadfast sentinel, its cedar logs glowing faintly, their grain polished by time, ivy weaving delicate spirals across beams, leaves catching the first light in shimmering flecks. The firepit at the clearing’s heart was reduced to a smoldering glow, its embers pulsing weakly, exhaling thin tendrils of woodsmoke that mingled with the sharp, medicinal tang of crushed herbs—yarrow, comfrey, and lavender—piled on a wooden bench, their scent heavy with urgency. Lupines drooped at the clearing’s edges, their purple and white petals curling inward, as if mourning, their musky sweetness dulled by the earthy dampness of clover underfoot and the faint, lingering chill of iron and frost, a ghostly echo from the ridge that clung to the air. The trellises stood bare, vines pruned back, their crimson blossoms gone, a stark reminder of battles looming. Towering pines framed the scene, their boughs still, needles glint

The Frostborn camp lay nestled in a shadowed valley beyond the Silver Claw territory’s northern ridge, cloaked in the heavy shroud of dusk, where snow fell in lazy, swirling flakes, blanketing the earth in a glistening, crimson-stained frost. The valley was a fortress of menace, ringed by iron stakes jutting like jagged teeth, their tips glinting with frost, reflecting the waning crescent moon’s feeble light in eerie, metallic shimmers. Pines loomed, their boughs sagging under snow, needles encased in ice, exhaling a sharp tang of sap that mingled with the choking scent of iron and blood, thick in the air, a primal warning that clawed at the throat. A rune circle glowed at the camp’s heart, its blood-red lines pulsing like veins, humming low, vibrating the ground, a heartbeat of malice. Tents of frost-gray furs huddled in the shadows, their flaps snapping in the wind, while iron-clad wolves prowled, their pelts shimmering with metallic flecks, ice-blue eyes glinting, claws scraping ea

The Silver Claw territory’s sacred grove lay hidden beyond the northern ridge, a hallowed sanctuary cradled in a frost-kissed hollow, where ancient oaks stood sentinel, their gnarled branches clawing a sky bruised with twilight’s indigo and crimson. Snow dusted the grove, blanketing the earth in a crystalline shroud, glinting like shattered stars under the waning crescent moon’s faint silver. The oaks’ bark was rough, etched with time, moss clinging in damp, emerald patches, exhaling a musky earthiness that mingled with the sharp bite of frost and the metallic tang of iron, now a constant shadow, heavy with blood’s undercurrent. Iron runes glowed faintly on the trees, carved deep, their metallic sheen pulsing like veins, a low hum vibrating the air, rattling bones. The grove’s heart was a clearing, where a stone circle stood—jagged monoliths etched with runes, their surfaces slick with frost, blood staining their bases, fresh and old, a primal altar to the Iron Veil. The air was frigi

The Silver Claw territory’s northern frontier lay shrouded in the heavy gloom of twilight, where a jagged ridge trail wound through a frost-bitten ravine, its granite walls towering like silent sentinels, their surfaces slick with ice, glinting in the waning crescent moon’s faint silver. Snow crunched underfoot, a thin, crystalline layer that shimmered, stained in patches with blood—fresh, glistening, and old, faded to rust, a testament to battles fought and looming. Pines loomed sparsely, their boughs sagging under frost, needles encased in ice, exhaling a sharp tang of sap that mingled with the musky dampness of moss clinging to rocks and the choking scent of iron and frost, now thick with blood’s raw edge, a primal pulse that set the heart racing. Iron runes glowed faintly on the ravine’s walls, carved deep, their metallic sheen pulsing like veins, a low hum vibrating the air, rattling bones, a whisper of the Iron Veil’s hunger. The trail led to a narrow pass, where a crumbling arc