The lunar eclipse began just after nightfall.
A crimson shadow slid across the moon's face, dimming its silver glow into a ghostly red. Above the capital, bells chimed for the festival, and laughter echoed from firelit courtyards. Drums beat in rhythm with wine, perfume, and distraction.
Underground, silence reigned.
“Ready?" Arden whispered, pressing himself against the damp stone wall.
Elara tightened the sash over her cloak. Her eyes gleamed like tempered steel. “Yes."
She wore no royal finery, no crown—only a belt of bandages, a dagger at her hip, and the carved wooden wolf tucked against her ribs. In the flickering torchlight, she looked less like a healer and more like a myth made flesh.
The midwife handed Arden a vial. “Scent masker. Lasts an hour."
Elara took hers without he
