The council of witches hadn’t convened in over a century.
They were scattered remnants of power—wise women and men who once guided kings and queens, now hidden in ruins and caves, temples long forgotten.
But they came for Ivy.
Not for the crown she wore, but for the powerwaking inside her. A power older than shifters, older than vampires, older than gods.
“Ivy Aedara,” the eldest witch rasped, her hair a curtain of silver threads. “You bear three marks. The Alpha’s bond, the divine blessing… and the curse of the rift.”
They stood in a stone circle under a blood-colored moon. The air tasted of fire and fog. Ivy felt Kael’s presence behind her like armor, silent and tense.
“What do you mean—curse?” Ivy asked.
A younger witch, one with black eyes and lips stained with berries, stepped
