The cold stones of the dungeon pressed against Tristan Ravenswood's back as he leaned against the wall, his eyes closed in intense concentration. For six long days, he had worked tirelessly with the artifact Elwin had given him, pushing his preternatural senses to their limits. The magical barriers that had dulled his abilities slowly crumbled, allowing him to probe the souls of every prisoner in the chamber.
As the sixth night descended upon the gloomy cell, Tristan finished examining the last prisoner. His heart sank with the weight of failure. No trace of Rafe. The young werewolf had vanished like mist in the morning sun.
Suddenly, a familiar presence touched his mind, bringing with it a welcome respite from his dark thoughts.
"Well, brother, I perceive you have procured for yourself
