The battlefield did not feel sacred.
It felt raw.
Wind tore down the Grey Spine in wild, uneven gusts, carrying the metallic scent of frost and blood before the first blow was ever struck. Frostclaw’s banners snapped like predatory wings in the night, silver sigils glowing with promises they could no longer enforce.
Across the ridge, Blackthorne stood in uneven lines—unarmored in places, half-shifted in others, every heartbeat a declaration of choice rather than obedience.
No gods hovered above us.
No omens marked the ground.
Only wolves and will.
Kael stood at the center of our line, a living storm barely contained in skin and bone. His dominance rolled outward—not as command—but as permission to stand without fear.
I felt the shadow coil beneath my ribs, patient and sharp.
This
