CHAPTER 32: THE PULL OF A DYING THREAD
The night was unnaturally still.
Noah stood at the northern cliffside of the Blood Moon territory, wind tugging at the hem of his cloak like a ghost trying to pull him back to something he couldn’t quite name. The stars blinked above, cold and watching. The forest below was dark and silent—no wolves howled, no leaves rustled.
And yet something screamed within him.
It wasn’t a voice, nor a memory. It was a tremor in his chest, a violent tug in the place where her mark once lived.
The fading mark on his neck flared—not with heat, but with a cold fire, like a phantom clawing to remind him it once burned.
He gripped the edge of the cliff until his knuckles blanched. His breath caught.
“Catleya…”
He whispered her name like a prayer and a curse. He
