The Hunger's last words echo inside me—"The feast has begun"—a curse sinking deeper than blood. Dahlia's weight lies in my arms, her pulse fluttering weakly, dim as a dying ember. I clutch her tighter, but shadows creep across her skin, crawling like veins of ink where her blood kissed the edge of the abyss.
"No—" My voice cracks. I push my wolf's power into her, raw and reckless, forcing light into her fading body. For a moment, the glow steadies her chest, a shallow breath escaping her lips. But the scar flares hot, alive, rebelling against me.
Visions rip through my mind. A vast maw splitting open in the abyss. Runes branded into flesh older than the world. Chains rattling against a void where stars are devoured whole.
And beneath it, a voice coils around me like smoke:
"Ultherra shael draevor… coroneth shael veyrathuun… feed, bearer, feed."
("By oath of shadow… the crowned shall fall to the Devourer… feed, bearer, feed.")
