The copper flask hit the frozen dirt with a heavy, hollow thud, dark spirits seeping into the snow. Freya didn’t pick it up. Her scarred hands hung motionless at her sides, her knuckles wrapped in blood-stained linen, her face so pale her freckles stood out like dark ink. Her dark eyes were locked on mine, wide and bright with a raw, primal terror I had never seen in her. The voice was still vibrating through the soles of my leather boots. It wasn't in the air. It was in the granite, in the mountain, in the marrow of the castle itself. “Moonborn.” My silver wolf was dead silent in my chest, her ears pinned flat, her body tensed to spring. I took a slow step toward Freya, keeping my voice low. "You heard it." Freya’s fingers twitched, her throat clicking as she swallowed hard. "I heard the wind." "Don't lie to me," I snapped, stepping into her space, my heightened senses picking up the sudden, frantic double-time of her pulse. "The flask fell because you heard it. It called me
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