The moon fractured in her dream.
A clean silver disc, cracked down the middle, bleeding light like spilled milk into an ocean of stars. The world tilted with the sound—like a bone snapping in the sky. And when the silence followed, it wasn’t peace.
It was a warning.
She stood on the lake again. The water stilled like glass. Her reflection stared back—not her face, but her wolf’s. Taller, leaner. Eyes burning violet. Marked from collar to spine.
And then the voice came.
You are the last of three.
One bound in fear.
One buried in shadow.
One born to choose.
***
Aria woke before sunrise, breath sharp, skin damp with moonlight.
The third mark still pulsed down her spine, warm like fire—but now, it hummed. Not with pain.
With urgency.
By the time she reached the courtyard, Thorne,
