The morning of the winter solstice did not arrive with a whisper, it arrived with a clarion call. The sky over the Aldenar mansion was a deep, bruised violet, streaked with veins of auroral green that seemed to pulse in anticipation. For the first time in centuries, the great Bronze Horn of the North, an instrument carved from the tusk of a leviathan, sounded from the highest battlements. Its low, bone-shaking rumble rolled across the valley, signaling to every clan leader and commoner alike that the Wolf and the Elemental Master were finally coming home to each other.
Inside the Spindle Tower, the air was thick with the scent of pine resin and the sharp, metallic tang of high-altitude mana. Verona stood before a floor-to-ceiling mirror of polished obsidian, her breath hitching as Liera and Brielle hovered around her like nervous birds.
