The Echo of The Moon
These wolves weren't looking for a god; they were looking for a reason to hope.
Toward the end of the night, Malachi led me to the center of the hall. The humming returned, but this time, it was higher, a choral vibration that seemed to lift the very stones of the floor.
"Members of the Obsidian," Malachi’s voice boomed, echoing through the rafters. He took my hand and raised it, our interlaced fingers glowing with a unified, electric indigo light. "The winter is coming. Not the winter of seasons, but the winter of the North. They come to harvest our marrow. They come to turn our mountains into ash."
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