The moon rose swollen and silver, its glow pressing through the veil until the compound seemed to breathe with it. Every stone wall, every sigil, every heartbeat inside thrummed with its pull.
The wolves felt it first. They prowled the halls in uneasy circles, claws scraping faintly against the floor, their eyes lit with feral gleam. Some murmured that their Alpha’s line was stirring, that the blood of prophecy was demanding its due.
The witches prepared in silence. Lines of chalk were redrawn, herbs burned until the corridors smelled of smoke and pine. Sigils shimmered faintly gold, trying to keep pace with the energy pounding at the veil. Some of the younger witches pressed their palms to the floor, wide-eyed, whispering that the moonlight felt alive beneath their hands.
And Ravyn—Rav
