THE CURSE OF THE FIFTH MATE
It wasn't a cry of pain.
It wasn't even rage.
It was power—raw, ancient, undeniable.
Her voice carried beyond the village, past the trees, across the valley. The sky, heavy with ash and horror, trembled at her call. Thunder cracked, rolling like drums across a battlefield. Then the clouds tore open, as if the Moon Goddess herself had heard her daughter's grief.
And the rain came.
A deluge like none had seen in years. Lightning danced across the treetops, veins of silver fire illuminating every scar the Order had left behind. The water washed the blood from the cobblestones, but not the memory. That would linger. It always did.
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