The ruin's council flame sputtered low, licking shadows across stone scarred by prophecy and blood. Damon stood with Dahlia pressed close, her hand still anchored to his Scar. Their pulse throbbed as one—chain and vessel, wolf and brand. Around them, wolves, Ironsworn, and drakhen lingered in a brittle circle, their words of alliance still half-born, not yet bound.
Then the ruin groaned, and the air shivered.
A tremor ran the length of the floor, claws screeched against rock as the Conclave shifted uneasily, and Damon's pack bristled with teeth bared. Spears lowered. Shadows licked the chamber walls as if the abyss itself had drawn breath.
And through the doorway, wreathed in ash and scorched cloak, came Serathion.
His eyes burned with fever-light, twin brands of oathfire that had never dimmed. His voice struck like a blade against the chamber's silence:
"I swore she would die. And no oath binds me otherwise."
