[Unknown Location—Night]
The chamber was carved deep beneath stone, far from cities and treaties and light.
Black candles burned low along the walls, their flames unnaturally still, casting warped shadows across ancient symbols etched into the floor.
The air smelled of iron and old magic like a power that had been waiting, watching, feeding on time.
A figure knelt at the center of the circle.
His head snapped up as the last sigil flared and went dark.
"That's not possible," he said.
Around him, others shifted uneasily, cloaked shapes, faces hidden and voices lowered by instinct rather than command.
"The curse stirred," one of them replied. "We felt it awaken."
"Yes," the first said sharply. "Awaken."
His fingers curled into the stone. "And yet it did not break."
Silence followed.
That had never happened before.
"For centuries," another voice said slowly, "when the Blackthorn curse surged, blood followed, cities trembled and wolves lost control."
There was a pause.
