The iron tip of Commander Caleb’s broadsword pointed directly at the lead hooded figure stepping through the mist.
"Identify yourselves," Caleb ordered, his voice flat as an executioner's blade. "You are standing on sovereign Bloodmoon soil in the presence of the Alpha King."
The three figures did not answer with words.
Instead, a wet, rattling hiss escaped from beneath their coarse linen cowls. Their sleeves fell back, revealing gray, vein-corrupted skin and jagged obsidian bone daggers dripping with black venom—the unmistakable signature of rogue alchemists who traded in forbidden shadow-rot.
Inside the parish hall, Elena didn't flinch at the sound of unsheathed steel outside.
Her palms rested firmly against the shivering chest of the six-year-old girl. The cool, silver radiance ben
