Emily Rosewood’s Point of View.
Raven Hollow, six weeks after the gate closed
The moon hung low and bloated that night, the color of fresh blood spilled across snow. It painted the Hollow in bruised reds and restless shadows, and every wolf felt it in their bones. They prowled the cliffs and the treelines, ears flat, eyes glowing, unable to settle. Even the wind sounded like a warning.
I stood at the heart of the ritual clearing, perfectly still while everything else trembled.
“I can still feel her,” I whispered, staring past the sky, past the stars, into something deeper. “The First Hinge. Her spirit is calling. Not in words, but in pressure. Like something pulling me forward by the ribs.”
Sebastian stood behind me, one arm locked around my waist, thumb tracing slow, grounding circle
