At dusk, the howls began.
Not wolves. Not beasts. Something worse.
Shadows poured from the treeline, their forms vast and endless. Wolves twisted beyond recognition, eyes glowing red, jaws dripping ichor. At their head rode Ronan, his copper hair tangled, his runes burning black, his amber eyes now nothing but pits of shadow.
"You should have chosen me, Aradia," he called, his voice echoing unnaturally. "You should have been my fire. Now you will be my Queen, whether you burn willingly or not."
Kael roared, shifting mid-stride into his massive wolf, his claws tearing into the first wave of rogues. Wolves surged to his side, snarling, biting, fighting with desperate fury.
Aradia's fire roared to life, her flames painting the battlefield gold. She stood at Kael's side, her fire and his fang unstoppable.
But the shadow was endless. For every rogue they burned, three more appeared.
And in the distance, the shadow itself stirred—vast, unholy, watching.