The air on the eve of the Blood Moon did not just feel cold; it felt heavy, saturated with a static charge that made the hair on Lena’s arms stand up every time she moved. The cabin, once a sanctuary of old books and chamomile tea, now felt like a glass house in the middle of a firing range.
Lena stood by the hearth, her eyes fixed on the door. She had spent the last hour trying to pack a bag, but her hands refused to cooperate. Every time she touched a piece of clothing, the mark on her wrist flared—a blinding, molten gold that seemed to be feeding off the rising moon. The "Command" she had used in the town square was no longer a hidden spark; it was a roaring fire just beneath her skin, demanding release.
A low, guttural vibration shook the floorboards. It wasn't thunder. It was a grow
