The valley did not sleep.
Mist curled low over the ground, drifting between ancient stones and twisted roots like something alive, something breathing. The air hummed faintly — not loud enough to hear, but strong enough to feel, vibrating just beneath my skin.
This place was old.
Older than the pack. Older than the stories they told to justify fire.
The watcher led me down the ridge in silence, her steps sure and unhurried, as though she had walked this path a hundred times before. I followed, my body aching with exhaustion that no amount of healing could erase. Power didn’t replace rest. It only kept death at bay.
At the valley’s heart, she stopped.
A ring of standing stones rose from the earth, weathered and darkened by time. Moss clung to their surfaces, etched with faint markings
