The sound of the violet bolt hitting the manor’s shield was like the world’s loudest bell ringing inside my skull. I gripped the stone railing of the balcony, my knuckles white, as the floor beneath me groaned. The protection seals Silas had bragged about—the ancient blood-magic of the Black Ridge—were flickering.
Down in the courtyard, the scene was pure, unadulterated chaos. The Black Ridge wolves were no longer just training; they were a sea of fur and fangs. I saw Silas at the front of the line, his wolf form massive—a creature of midnight fur and glowing gold eyes. He was a whirlwind of destruction, tearing through the white-robed infantry that had managed to scale the outer walls.
But for every Inquisitor he downed, three more seemed to rise from the mist.
"The grimoire," I whispe
