THE ALPHA MUST DIE
Her blood hissed when it hit the bones at her feet—bones of Hollowborn warriors buried in secret, remembered only in their howls.
The second cut went deeper. Across the chest, just beneath her collarbone—right where Victor once dreamed of placing his mark. She bled from it like a woman preparing for birth, or war, or both.
And the earth drank her.
It didn’t soak or stain. It swallowed. As if it had been thirsty for her all this time.
A sound ruptured the silence—a crack, low and deep, like a rib breaking underground. Then another. Then twenty. Bones rose, dusted in ash, charred from years of hidden rot. They formed a spiral around her, encircling her in a cage of legacy.
Bab Populer