Moonblade compound. The Teeth of the Moon, Friday 5:09 p.m.
•
Let’s go back a little here. Back to that Friday. The day before everything shifted. Before fire would light the sky in another state. Before Phoenix’s name would be spoken in rooms where it had never been uttered before, or pass the lips of those who had never known it existed, that she existed… Before the council’s sleep was broken. Before the Fujiwaras stirred. Before Corbin Blackwood felt a pull he couldn’t name. That Friday was like any other Friday at Moonblade. The rhythm of the territory is steady, ancient, and unshaken. The Rocky Mountains watched. The river ran. And the pit was alive. The Obsidian Range cut black shapes into the sky, the forest below already thick with evening shadow. Torches burned low along the ra
