The storm over the Hollow Fang fortress had not lifted. It churned like a living thing, black clouds seething with violet fire, as though the heavens themselves were mirroring the chaos that gripped the land. The triplets stood with Aria at the heart of the courtyard, the last embers of the Flameborn crown's power still glowing faintly at her temples. Around them, wolves shifted uneasily, claws clicking against stone, fur bristling with the scent of dread.
Dorian's hand gripped the hilt of his sword, his knuckles pale. Marcus scanned the horizon, his sharp eyes cutting through mist and shadow. Tobias stood closest to Aria, his steadying presence like an anchor against the rising tide of fear.
"The wards are breaking faster than we thought," Marcus muttered, his voice tight. His eyes flicked to the crackling barrier that had once protected Hollow Fang from invasion. Now it flickered like a candle in the wind, each pulse weaker than the last.
