The eastern border of Blackmoor territory was a wild place where ancient pines grew so thick they blocked out the sun even at midday. It was here, in a clearing that looked like it had been carved from the forest by violence rather than nature, that we found the m******e site.
I had seen death before—war, hunting accidents, the brutal realities of pack justice—but this was different. This was art painted in blood and terror.
The eight bodies were arranged in a perfect circle, each positioned with their arms outstretched toward the center where symbols had been carved deep into the earth. The cuts were precise, ritualistic, designed to cause maximum suffering while preserving the victims' ability to scream. Whoever had done this had taken their time, had enjoyed their work.
"Sweet moon a
