THE SEDUCTIVE hum of the Sacred Grove still resonated in Selene’s bones, a constant reminder of the ancient power Waldemar intended to wield. His chilling promise – "You have no idea what my wolf is capable of" – had solidified her resolve. The ritual, the prophecy, her supposed "purpose" – it all meant nothing if she wasn’t free to choose.
Nyra’s words, whispered during a rushed, clandestine meeting, echoed with more truth than Waldemar’s pronouncements of destiny. "This could break any bond… or make it unbreakable. Selene had chosen to believe in the former. The mischievous potion-maker, her eyes alight with an unusual seriousness, had slipped Selene a small, unmarked vial during a 'check-up' visit. Its liquid shimmered with faint, silver motes, cool to the touch even through the glass.
