The abyss did not breathe—it thundered.
The bone plain groaned and split under the First Alpha’s command, fissures spewing molten shadow and white fire. The ancient wolves that rose from those wounds towered like nightmares given flesh, their forms stitched from smoke and marrow, jaws bristling with bone fangs longer than spears.
Draven stood tall against them, his body broken but unyielding, his golden eyes blazing as though to defy the dark itself. Beside him, Elaria pressed one hand to his arm, silver light flickering through her veins like defiance given form.
Their bond pulsed hard and steady, even as the abyss sought to unravel it.
The First Alpha’s masked face tilted. His voice was thunder muffled by whispers.
“Show me. Show me if this love of yours is strength… or weakness.”
