The wind carried whispers of uncertainty as Layla and Ronan rode through the dense forest, following the summons of a neutral pack elder. The message had been cryptic, only a warning that the Blood Moon’s omens ran deeper than they realized. Now, as they approached the heart of the Elder’s domain, a sacred grove untouched by war, the weight of prophecy settled heavily upon them.
The grove was ancient, its gnarled trees stretching toward the heavens, their branches woven together like the threads of fate. At its center stood the Elder, a wizened figure draped in ceremonial robes, his silver eyes reflecting the flickering torchlight. Surrounding him were members of the neutral pack, their expressions wary, their loyalties undecided. The air carried the scent of burning sage, a reminder that
