The nursery window stood like a jagged mouth, devouring the silver moonlight. Elena stood at the edge of the stone sill, the wind whipping her hair into a frantic halo of ink. Below, the forest was screaming, the sound of splintering ancient oaks and the guttural, earth-shaking roars of the Black Wolf.
For five years, Elena had been a ghost. She had been a healer in the nomadic camps, a woman of soft hands and quiet whispers, stitching together the wounds of the broken while hiding the terrifying fire in her veins.
She had suppressed her nature to protect her children, fearing that if she ever truly let the Siphon out, the world would see her as the monster the Elders claimed she was.
But as she looked at the empty, cold beds of Leo and Myla, the healer died.
She didn't climb down. Sh
