The storm did not creep in—it broke like a blade against stone.
The shudder that rattled the woods of Kaelith's palace was first felt by Elaria in the marrow of her bones. A ragged, harsh howl erupted in the distance, and a chorus of responding voices rolled down the valley like thunder through the night. Draven had warned her about wolves, but they weren't pack or loyal wolves. Whispers of dissent, of rebellion, had taken flesh. And now they were coming.
The heavy doors of the hall slammed back against the walls as Marrik burst inside, blood streaking his temple. His breath came in sharp bursts, his voice carrying the weight of alarm.
“They’ve broken through the western gates. At least fifty wolves, maybe more. They’re wearing Veylen’s mark.”
The name cut through Elaria like an old
