The quiet of Crescent Moon had lasted longer than anyone expected. So long, in fact, that some had started to relax. To hope.
But Seraphina had learned long ago that silence was never safe.
Late one night, while the pack slept and the wind howled low through the trees, she lit a silver candle in the center of her cabin. Shadows danced across the walls, twisting like spirits. Her satchel lay open beside her, full of herbs and powdered stone, and a slender blade carved from bone. She hesitated before picking it up, the weight of the decision not lost on her.
Nova had begged to know more—had even offered to help. But Seraphina had refused. This kind of spell wasn’t safe. Not for Nova, not for River. Not for anyone except someone with nothing left to lose.
She whispered the incantation in
