The mark flared.
Light—not moonlight, not shadow, erupted from the floor, throwing wolves off their feet. The battle stuttered, snarls choking into silence as every eye turned toward the crescent glowing like molten iron.
The stone cracked.
Low and dreadful, like the groan of something ancient waking after being buried for too long, a sound rose from below. This time, instead of hunger, my shadows whipped frantically against my skin.
“Back!” With a growl, Thorn pulled me away. Hackles up, wolves staggered back in bewilderment. Nobody moved for a heartbeat.
The floor then split.
Not smoke, not flesh, a figure drew itself away from the c***k. Something halfway. It had no face—just a mask of shifting emptiness—but its shadow-dripping hands ended in claws. The smell of cold ash and iron
