The sky had never looked so cruel. Gray clouds rolled over the horizon like ash made flesh, thick and heavy, refusing to break. No sunlight filtered through them. No warmth followed the dawn. It felt less like a morning and more like a warning.
Selene rode at the head of the column, her silver cloak pulled close, the armor at her chest catching stray beams of light where it dared to peek through the gloom. Her mount—a dark-gray warhorse named Eira—tread over the hard-packed dirt with steady grace. Behind her, the army moved like a tide.
Ashspine to her left. Cragtooth to her right. Frostveil archers took the ridge behind.
Five clans. One queen.
But as they descended into the Weeping Valley, her chest tightened.
Because something was wrong.
The valley’s name had always been poetic. On
