The sky broke first.
Not with thunder.
Not with lightning.
But with the sound of something ancient… tearing.
The rift above the battlefield widened like a wound that refused to close, spilling darkness into the crimson glow of the Blood Moon. The Devourers shrieked as they poured through it—winged horrors of bone and shadow, their hollow eyes gleaming with a hunger older than the wolves themselves.
Below, chaos reigned.
The valley that had once held judgment had become a graveyard in the making.
Claws met steel.
Teeth met flesh.
Magic met destruction.
And at the center of it all—
Elara stood unmoving.
But not untouched.
Power coursed through her like a storm breaking its chains.
Her silver hair lifted as if caught in an unseen current, her glowing Moonmarks pulsing in rhythm with the sky itself. The ancient throne behind her hummed, responding, feeding her, anchoring her.
She could feel everything.
Every wolf.
Every heartbeat.
Every scream.
It was too much.
