Blood of the Black Moon
Dawn never quite arrived.
The Witchfire storm burned the horizon white, then guttered to ash, leaving the sky the color of old iron. Smoke drifted in ragged curtains across the broken bridge, carrying the metallic tang of spells burned out and bodies that never were. The Dominion ranks had withdrawn before sunrise—orderly, eerily silent—leaving only scorched glass and sigils cooling like brands.
Kaelira stood at the cliff’s edge until the last echo of marching faded. Her wolf paced under her skin, restless. The witch in her counted breaths, measuring the way the bond dragged and then steadied, dragged and steadied, until Zevran’s pulse matched hers again.
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