The Hollow of Ancients breathed with a magic older than any tale passed down in Kaelin's village. The walls glowed faintly, veined with silver filigree that pulsed like the heartbeat of the world itself. Their footfalls echoed into infinity, swallowed by the bones of time.
Kaelin walked at the front, torch raised. Her eyes darted across the crystalline carvings etched into the walls—scenes of great battles, of celestial beasts locked in celestial war, of alphas kneeling to a crowned figure whose eyes had been left blank. Beside her, Theron’s hand was lightly on the hilt of his sword, not from fear—but reverence. This was a place of gods.
“I can hear them,” Kaelin whispered.
“The Ancients?” Theron asked, his voice a breath.
Kaelin nodded. “They’re whispering. Not words. Feelings. Regret
