DANTE
The northern border reeks of silver and frustrated Alpha. From the ridge, I watch them circle the first marker like wolves around a carcass they can't crack open—a ribbon twisted through cedar branches, metal burning bright against moss-dark bark. Below it, Cherokee syllabary flows in vertical lines that might as well be decorative for all they understand.
Where moonbeams kiss the morning dew, the second path reveals itself true.
"A children's rhyme." Mike appears beside me, moving with that eerie forest fae silence. "She really went for the throat."
Below, ninety-five Alphas cluster in various stages of confusion. Thomas paces, fury radiating from every line. David studies the symbols with the intense focus of someone who has no idea what he's looking at. Jeremy—still nursing wo
