“The moon is full," Elder Lin announced. “The Spirit Circle is ready."
Sepharine stood at the edge of the stone clearing, breath shallow. Draven approached from the opposite side, lantern light flickering across his stitched cloak.
Between them, the Circle waited—sacred ground where only truth could pass.
No flowers. No music.
Just them.
The wind quieted.
Then the spirits stirred.
Silver wisps shimmered into view—ancestral wolves, translucent and silent. Some bore armor. Some bore scars. All watched.
Elder Marlow raised his hand. “Step forward."
They did.
A single spirit emerged. Draven froze.
His old wheelchair appeared beside it.
Sepharine inhaled sharply.
The spirit spoke—not in words, but presence. Memory. Pain.
Draven stepped toward the chair. Then knelt beside it.
“I h
