There was no up or down. No sound. No breath.
Just falling.
The kind of falling that bent reality around it, that made time bleed into itself. Seren couldn’t scream—not because she didn’t want to, but because there was no air to carry it. Her hand gripped Kael’s as tightly as she could, her fingers trembling, numb, her wolf roaring inside her with instinctual panic.
Kael’s grip never loosened.
He was unconscious—his body slack, eyes closed, the sigil on his chest pulsing faintly—but his fingers still curled protectively around hers, even as they plummeted into the heart of whatever this place was.
The light around them was not light at all.
It was memory.
Flickers.
Images.
Flashes of wolves long dead—battles fought in ancient forests, fire and blood raining beneath moons in phases
