The night air in the Eastern barrens was thin and dry, filled with whispers that only the dead could understand.
Jeremy Soren stood at the edge of a wind-swept cliff, his crimson cloak coiling in the gale like a serpent. Below him, the third rift throbbed with newborn energy. It wasn't fully opened yet—just a crack, a weak seam in the fabric of reality. But the seal had begun to bleed, and that was all he needed.
The stone altar beneath his feet was carved with ancient sigils—pre-werewolf, pre-human—a language forbidden even in the days of the Elders. The Varium ore embedded within the rock pulsed like a heartbeat, syncing with his breath.
Behind him, the air shimmered… and then she appeared.
The woman cloaked in blue flame.
She didn't walk—she glided, her feet never touching the ground. Her presence scorched the earth, yet left no trace. Her face was veiled, her voice layered with echoes, as if she was more than one being trapped within a single form.
"You called," she said. Her voice was low, musical—and entirely wrong, like a lullaby sung backward.
Jeremy turned toward her, eyes flashing. "You said you'd show me the path. You said when the second seal opened, the true power of the Rift would awaken."
The woman tilted her head. "It will. But the power is not yours yet. The Veil still holds. You must break the third."
He scowled, stepping closer. "You keep speaking in riddles. Why should I trust you?"
Her hand lifted, blue fire swirling at her fingertips. "Because I know who you truly are, Soren of the Hollow Line. You are more than a man with vengeance. You are the vessel chosen long before your mother birthed you. The Varium responds to your blood because your lineage is older than the Moon Goddess herself."
That made him pause.
The Hollow Line. The name was whispered only in ancient texts—one of the first cursed bloodlines, erased by the Council of High Packs over a thousand years ago. His mother had warned him never to speak of it.
"How do you know this?" he demanded.
The woman's veil fluttered, revealing just a glimpse—barely a sliver—of pale skin and a mark glowing violet on her throat. It looked disturbingly similar to the seal Eila bore in her visions.
"I was there," she whispered. "When the Veil was born. When the Prophecy was written. When the first mate-bond was forged in fire and shattered by betrayal."
He stepped back, unsettled. "You're not… werewolf. Are you?"
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Not anymore."
Lightning cracked across the sky, and the rift below groaned like a beast in its sleep.
Jeremy turned back toward the altar. "Then guide me. Tell me how to open the third rift."
"There is no map," she said. "Only blood, memory… and her."
Jeremy stiffened.
"Eila?"
"She carries the last seal within her. Born of the moonlight, kissed by ancient flame. You cannot open the final rift without her."
He clenched his fists. "Then I'll take her."
"She must willingly offer the seal. If you take it by force, it will consume you."
"Then I'll make her believe she must give it to me."
The woman said nothing. Only her blue fire flickered.
Jeremy looked back down at the second rift. The creatures beneath it stirred. Tentacles of shadow scraped at the barrier, eager for release.
"Then we begin with the second," he muttered. "Tonight, it opens."
The woman's voice was a whisper on the wind:
"And the world will begin to bleed."