The castle walls stood tall against the twilight, torches flickering like watchful eyes as the first replies returned. Scrolls bound in gold, silver, bone, and thorns arrived by bird, wind, shadow, and spell. One by one, Rose and her mates—Marcus, Alex, and Leo—unfurled the messages in the war room.
Skarrah would come. So would the Fae Queen, the Witch of Velasyr, the Beastkin Lords, the Serpentkin Sovereign, even the Moon-Sworn Giants. Armies of old, long-thought buried in time, were rising for this cause. For her.
“They’re all answering,” Rose whispered, staring at the swirl of glowing sigils across the ancient map laid before them. “They’re coming.”
Marcus nodded, arms crossed, his golden eyes scanning the spread of banners. “They remember Seraphiel.”
Alex’s fire-hued gaze remained
