The sky does not roar when Heaven’s gates open.
It listens.
The first howl comes from the western ridge.
Long. Low. Not a challenge.
A signal.
It rolls through the forests like breath through lungs, passing from one territory to the next—answered by another howl, and another, and another—until the wild itself begins to speak in a language older than gods and crowns.
Kael stiffens beside me.
“They’re calling the packs,” he murmurs.
Not just his.
All of them.
Rogue. Exiled. Hidden. Forgotten.
The wolves who had learned to survive beneath a sky that once spoke only in commandments.
Blackthorne’s outer wards flare to life as enforcement gates bloom along the treeline—thin, bright circles humming with polished authority. The Aftershock Protocols roll forward in cold, perfect formati
