Alle Kapitel von SIXTY DAYS TO MOONFALL : Kapitel 1 – Kapitel 5

The last thing I remember is snow in my mouth.Not the cold. Because cold stops mattering once your fingers quit answering. What I remember was the taste, iron and ash, and the sound of the shelter gate grinding shut with me on the wrong side of it. A gate I had hauled stone for. A gate I had bled into, one winter at a time.Dravik stood behind it. The last seat in the Hollow Shelter was already taken. Maelis sat in it, her pup tucked under her chin, her fingers laced through my husband's.He didn't look back. I watched for it until my eyes iced over.Then the beast tide came crashing through the pines, and as I went down I finally learned what the Pack had known since the day I was born. The howl that rose out of my chest was not a healer's howl. It was a queen's.It came forty seconds too late.Then nothing.Then ceiling.I surged up out of the dark with a gasp that hurt my teeth. Wooden beams. Lavender soap. Morning light slanting through the crooked window of the Hollowmere pack h

The Records House sat at the far end of the village, a squat stone building with no sign and iron shutters. Nobody visited it. Pack wolves liked to believe that the past was something you could simply outrun.Ottoline Quist unlocked three separate doors before we reached her desk. Brynja trailed behind with her hammer through her belt, refusing to be sent home. I wasn't going to argue. I'd have fought a bear for the company."Sit," Quist said. "Don't touch anything yet."She laid a folded document in front of me. The wax seal was the color of dried blood, pressed with a crescent moon I recognized from somewhere deep, somewhere before language. It was the same shape as the gold thread under my collarbone."Your mother's mother," said Quist, "was Ysolt of Silverlune. The last of the Moon Line. When the old crown fell, the surviving royals scattered or were hunted down. Ysolt hid. She married a nobody, raised a daughter under a false name, and when that daughter died in childbirth, she h

"He didn't leave a name," the broker said. "But he's still across the road at the weigh station, arguing with my loaders about how to stack barrels. Tall fella. Scar on his jaw. You can't miss him."I missed nothing. I was already moving.The weigh station sat on the far side of the dirt road, a tin shed with a rusted scale and four flatbed trucks parked in a ragged line. Two men in coveralls were hauling barrels onto the third truck. A third stood over them with a clipboard, perfectly still.He was the kind of tall that makes a doorway look careless. Broad across the back, dark hair cropped short, a scar running from his left ear to the corner of his mouth. He wore a canvas coat the color of old dust and no Pack badge at all. A faded brand circled his right forearm where the sleeve had ridden up: three black rings, snapped through the middle.A rogue. An oath-breaker, or someone who'd been named one.He glanced up as I crossed the road, and I felt it land on me, flat and unhurried an