WOLVES OF WINTER MOON
Twelve monoliths arched upward like the ribs of a dead god, each etched with sigils that burned white-hot as Astra’s blood soaked into the grooves.
She did not cry out.
She had learned long ago that pain fed the wrong things.
Behind her, the wind howled—no, screamed—as something massive strained against chains of light at the edge of the circle.
The Winter Wraith.
It was not a wolf.
Not anymore.
Once, perhaps. Long before corruption twisted it into something that wore shadow like flesh. Now it was hunger given shape, a vast silhouette of ice and night, eyes like dying stars, breath that froze the air into shards.