Crimson Outcast
V. Ballarddream of bleeding eyesraindrops falling from my eyesmy dream is already smeared with bloodlittle nightmares chapter 3
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.
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