The moon was steady.
Too steady.
For three nights after the battle with the fractured wolves, the sky remained unnaturally calm. No flicker. No halo. No tremor in the tether.
But Rovan could not sleep.
Because the pressure in his chest had not faded.
It had grown.
Not silver.
Not lunar.
Something colder.
Something vast.
He stood alone at Ravenspire when it finally happened.
The stars blinked out.
Not all at once.
One by one.
As if something enormous moved behind them.
The moon did not dim.
It sharpened — its light narrowing into a focused beam that touched the cliffs before him.
And within that beam—
The air tore open.
Not like the eclipse.
Not violent.
Precise.
A vertical seam of pure darkness, thin as a blade.
From it stepped a figure.
Not winged.
Not monstrous.
