The White Wolf Luna
The peakstone wolf stepped inside, her claw extended, and with one deliberate motion, she dragged it across her foreleg, letting blood fall onto the centerstone.
Fenric followed without hesitation, cutting across his palm, the scent of his blood sharp, unmistakable, not purely wolf.
When their blood touched, the stone responded—not with flame, not with light, but with sound. A low thrum, almost imperceptible, like the vibration of bone struck deep in the earth.
“They buried it,” the old wolf said. “But blood remembers. It does not forgive, but it remembers.”
Others began to enter, circling the stone. None spoke.
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