The air on the Moon-Cliff didn't just vibrate; it shattered.
The raw, unrefined lunar light pouring from the fractured moon was a physical weight, a torrential downpour of celestial radiation. To a werewolf, the moon is a conductor of instinct—but this was a lightning strike to the soul.
Across the battlefield, the "Shift-Lock" didn't just break; it exploded. Men and women fell to the stone, their bodies contorting in a grotesque ballet of snapping bone and tearing muscle. The transformation, usually a ritual of power, was now a seizure of agony.
"Kaelen!" Elara’s voice was barely a whisper against the chorus of guttural howls.
Kaelen was on his knees, his hands clawing at the limestone. His eyes had bled from grey to a terrifying, sightless amber. His spine arched, the leather of his
