The message was found at dawn.
One of the border scouts had been making his routine patrol when he froze mid-step, the birds around him scattering into the grey morning air. At first he thought an animal had been killed against the bark of the old iroko tree. Dark stains streaked downward in uneven lines, still wet enough to glisten.
Then he read the words.
He didn’t shout. He didn’t move. He simply stared, dread crawling up his spine like cold fingers.
By the time the alarm reached the packhouse, a tight crowd had already gathered around the tree. No one spoke. No one dared.
The writing bled down the bark in jagged strokes, as though carved by trembling hands.
Your Luna of Ashes is mine.
The metallic scent in the air confirmed what they feared. It wasn’t
