The air shimmered with excitement.
From the upper balconies of Blackmoon’s training halls, banners of deep silver and blue fluttered in the breeze. Torches lit the outer walls, their golden light bathing the academy in a warm, ceremonial glow. The scent of roasted meats, sweet bread, and freshly brewed moonwine drifted from the Great Hall, mingling with the primal hum of wolves barely restrained.
Rayne stood near the back, dressed in her standard Blackmoon uniform—combat boots, black tunic, silver-trimmed cloak—nothing that screamed “mate-worthy.” Her hood was drawn low, masking her face. As she stood still watching as the gates to Blackmoon were drawn open with a slow, dramatic groan.
Then—they arrived.
The Lunaria girls stepped through in a formation so elegant, it felt choreographed
