The ritual site pulsed with dark energy, the crimson glow of the Blood Moon washing over the cold stone altar where Layla knelt, bound in ceremonial chains. Each link glowed faintly, inscribed with runes she recognized from the forbidden texts she once read in secret. They were not merely restraints, they were conduits, forged to channel her power into the hands of the one who sought to wield it.
Her father stood before her, towering and unyielding, his presence as suffocating as the magic pressing down on her limbs. Behind him, the gathered wolves, rogues, loyalists, and hesitant onlookers—formed a tense circle, their gazes locked on the unfolding ritual. Fear clung to the air, thick and suffocating, mingling with the scent of burning herbs and smoldering wood from the sacred pyres surro
