For a long breath, nothing moved.
The figure in the field—wrapped from crown to heel in his own shadows—stood like a column of night. No face. No voice. Only the shape of a man who had once bent courts and packs and covens and thought himself unbreakable.
Then the children sagged.
Hope’s knees buckled first. Dorian’s jaw unclenched and trembled. Maria’s little girl swayed as if a hand had shoved her from behind. The smallest boy’s fingers slipped on sweat-slick skin until Alaric tightened his grip and held him fast. Even Alaric was gray with effort, his hair plastered to his forehead, lips cracked from the chant.
Ravyn was already running. The dew-line had gone dull, the hum in the ground fading to a faint throb. She slid the last step, arms out. “It’s over—it’s over, you can let go!”
