The storm arrived without warning.
Not of wind or rain—but of magic.
It shattered the perimeter wards like glass, every rune carved into the Hollow’s cliffs igniting with silver fire before vanishing. The entire mountain howled, the stones groaning under pressure none of us could name.
Kael was already armed.
By the time I reached the war hall, he stood at the map table, shirtless, clawed, eyes glowing like molten steel.
“They’re here,” he growled. “Not soldiers. Not scouts.”
“What then?” I asked.
He turned to me.
“Witches.”
We found them waiting at the base of the Hollow.
Not hiding. Not lurking.
Standing.
Six of them—robed in pale bone-dyed cloth, their faces hidden behind masks carved from antlers and teeth. No scent. No sound. Just cold, coiled intent.
A seventh stood in f
