The first night of spring arrived beneath a crescent moon—thin as a blade, sharp as memory. The forest breathed differently now, its silence no longer suffocating but waiting. Something was stirring beneath the calm.
The Silverfang wolves sensed it first. They lifted their heads toward the wind, ears flicking, nostrils flaring. The scent was faint but unmistakable—moonfire and wild roses, threaded with something older, something that didn't belong to this world.
Damian felt it before they did.
He stood on the terrace of the fortress, his hand gripping the cold stone railing, his breath visible in the chill night. The air trembled faintly around him, the kind of tremor that once heralded gods, storms, or both.
Kael joined him, his expression alert. "You feel it too," he said quietly.
Damian didn't answer. His gaze swept over the forest, where the moonlight pooled silver among the trees. A faint hum filled the air, like distant bells ringing beneath the soil.
