Emily Rosewood’s Point of View.
Raven Hollow, eight weeks and five days after the gate closed
The sky cracked open like glass under pressure, bleeding light and shadow in equal measure.
A rift stretched above the Hollow—vast, humming with magic both ancient and alien. The edges of the tear pulsed with unlight, and through it poured the Twisted.
They were not wolves.
They were not human.
They were Echoes—the corrupted remains of what had once been. Warped beyond natural form, their bodies stretched like melted wax, flickering with fire that no longer burned clean. Eyes too wide. Claws that shimmered with cold.
And they were many.
Sebastian stood at the edge of the cliffs beside me, wind ripping at his cloak, his wolf so close to the surface I could feel the vibration of his snarl in
