The ritual circle was drawn in silver ash and wolf’s bane, carved into the stone floor beneath Silverclaw’s oldest temple—a hidden chamber far from the heart of the pack lands, nestled beneath the roots of the mountain. The air was damp, heavy with magic and memory.
Ashyra stood barefoot in the center, her fingers twitching at her sides, every instinct warning her to run. Not from the shadows this time, but from something far more dangerous: surrender.
Stephan stepped into the circle beside her, his shirt discarded, a faint scar visible across his shoulder—a relic of battles past. He met her gaze without flinching.
“You sure about this?” Ashyra asked, voice tight.
“No,” he replied. “But I’m more sure about not letting that thing out there win.”
Mira stood at the edge of the circle, cl
