The air atop the Iron Mountains didn't hum with electricity anymore; it breathed with the rhythm of the earth. The "Dead Zone" had become something else—a kingdom.
In the week since the "Rooting," the territory had transformed. The black lilies now carpeted the valleys, their soft violet glow providing a natural light that never faded. The jagged rocks had smoothed into natural battlements, and the caves were no longer damp holes, but warm, torch-lit halls where the Pack finally slept without one eye open.
At the highest point of the Black Notch sat a throne made of obsidian and silver-birch roots. **Elara** sat there, her violet eyes scanning the horizon, her cloak of shadows trailing behind her like a living storm.
Beside her stood **Silas**. He didn't sit on a throne; he stood as the
