SEPARATE.
The ritual chamber lay deep within Silvercrest’s oldest forest—a clearing older than any living wolf, where the trees grew so wide their roots broke through stone. The air there always felt different. Thicker. Listening.
Tonight, it vibrated with power.
Seven shamans stood in a perfect circle around the clearing’s heart, their bare feet planted in soil etched with sigils. Silver dust marked the perimeter. Carved bone totems hung from low branches, chiming softly as the wind moved through them.
At the center, Sera and Marcus knelt facing each other, hands clasped, foreheads nearly touching.
Between them, their mate bond pulsed—alive, molten, waiting.
Ten feet away, the entity writhed inside its portable ward.
Sage had designed the containment box herself: a cube of dark iro
