“Moonblade.”
The word whispered up from beneath the sealed hollow.
Not loud.
Not command.
Warning.
Every wolf in the clearing went still.
Gwyn felt the word move through the pack bond like a blade drawn slowly across old memory. Not cutting. Not yet.
Remembering.
Ronan’s face changed first.
His hand tightened on Maelin’s shoulder, but his gaze lifted toward the black ash where the root arch had collapsed.
Calla stepped closer, sword still raised. “What does that mean?”
Maelin coughed once, spat blood into the dirt, and glared at the sealed hollow as though sheer spite might keep it closed.
“It means,” she rasped, “the dead bastard is not done talking.”
Kael’s arms were still around Gwyn.
His hand had not left her back.
Hers had not left his chest.
Neither of them moved fast
