The underground armory smells of old stone, crushed rowan berries, and cold iron.
I stand shirtless in the center of the ritual circle, muscles tight, jaw locked. This is the oldest rite the Revenant Pack still honors—marking the Alpha before he walks into battle. Tonight we end the Architects’ reach on our land, or I don’t come back.
Rowena moves first. My mother’s face is set hard, her golden eyes like winter light. She is no longer the woman who cooked for the pack three nights ago. She is Luna now, and she carries centuries in her hands. Beside her, Kali—my aunt I mourned for ten years—grinds more herbs into a bowl, her fingers stained deep purple.
“Steady,” Rowena commands, her voice low and resonant with Alpha power.
She dips her fingers into the bowl of oil—woodsmoke and autumn
