Dawn broke over Mount Shasta like nature's most epic "we survived this s**t" party, painting the sky in cotton candy streaks of pink and gold. The air, no longer thick with eldritch doom-vibes, smelled almost obscenely fresh—like someone had taken regular mountain air and cranked the "pure" setting to eleven.
At the ritual site's base, dozens of formerly corrupted minions were waking up to the mother of all collective hangovers. Imagine your worst tequila blackout, multiply by cosmic horror possession, and you'd still fall short of the confused hell these poor souls were experiencing.
Lukan Riverstrong, Alpha of the Bay Area pack, sat with his massive head in equally massive hands, looking like he'd just woken up naked at his ex's wedding. Which, honestly, might have been preferable to t
