N Y X A R A
The wolves did not drag me to judgment like a prisoner.
They dragged me like a plague.
Claws bit through my sleeves, careful not to kill me yet, angry enough to promise it later. Blood dried beneath my collarbone, and every step split the pain open again.
I swallowed it before anyone could enjoy the sound.
The doors groaned wide.
Moonlight spilled over black moonstone veined with silver. Above, wolf-headed beams snarled down from the shadows. Around me, Ashmoore’s elders sat in a crescent of raised stone seats.
They did not look old. They looked like knives that had survived long enough to rust.
“Kill her before the Moon names her,” someone said.
The chamber answered with a hungry murmur. The guards shoved me into the center of the hall. I caught myself before my knees
