The battlefield had gone quiet, but not with peace.
It was the silence that came when breath itself was stolen — the silence before the collapse. Wolves and Reavers alike held their ground at the edge of the breach, their gazes fixed not on one another, but on the two figures at the heart of the valley.
Elinora and the Grave Alpha.
Her cloak was torn, her skin streaked with blood and soot, her hands raw from gripping the Spine. The cracks beneath her feet blazed white, rivers of fire spilling outward in jagged veins. Her chest rose and fell in sharp, ragged gasps, but still she stood.
The Grave Alpha loomed across from her, his blade burning brighter with every breath. His mask glowed red, its cracks pulsing like veins of molten stone. Behind him, the endless tide of Reavers waited in
