Crimson Outcast
They stand—no, they are—a family in lupine form, shoulders touching, breaths synced in a rhythm older than words.
Then, as the ritual’s energy peaks, golden lines begin to thread through the silver moonlight. They arc from each wolf, connecting them to Thalia, glowing brighter with each beat of her chant. The lines quiver, alive, as if carrying currents of love, memory, and oath. Thalia’s hands tremble faintly, her face serene but strained, as the gold weaves into an intricate pattern over Amara, protective and binding.
Bab Populer