The skies over Crimson Ridge remained eerily calm in the days following the battle. The scent of blood still lingered, but the pack was moving forward. While healers tended to the wounded and the fallen were given proper rites, a new journey brewed, one far darker and more perilous than any they had faced.
Elizabeth stood in the center of the sacred circle at dawn, surrounded by ancient stones engraved with moon runes. Saelith, Kieran, and Lucian stood with her.
“The Gate of Mourning,” Saelith began, “is older than the werewolf bloodline itself. It lies deep in the Forgotten Vale, a cursed place untouched by light for over a thousand years. Only the bearer of the Golden Flame can pass the threshold.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Then I’ll go. Alone, if I must.”
Lucian’s snarl was immediate. “You
