They came at midnight.
No warning. No distance-muffled howls.
Just an absolute, suffocating silence that swallowed the ambient hum of the forest whole.
Rhea stood at the southern ridge beside Lucci and Isla, when the first figures glided from the gloom. They wore heavy robes, their faces masked by veils.
The Ashwake cult.
Directly behind them trudged the Hollowed—nearly double the number from the night before.
Isla’s hand flew to her belt, raising a signal flare.
Wolves poured from the treeline, fanning out across the rocky crest.
Rhea took a single step forward into the exposed light.
"They're not here to fight," she said, her voice carrying an eerie, steady calm that surprised even herself.
Lucci shifted his weight, his fingers white-knuckled against the hilt of his weapon.
