Wind howled through the pines, ripping leaves from branches and rattling the very bones of the sanctuary. The sky above was a bruised curtain of dark cloud, stained purple and sickly green by spirit magic. Lightning carved fissures in the heavens, and the earth itself groaned as if bracing for what was to come.
Aria stood at the head of her army, the Moonstone Sanctuary behind her, her people arrayed across the hillside. The Stormfront Pact had gathered—spirit wolves, healers, elementalists, and warriors from every allied pack. Banners whipped in the wind, some torn and hastily stitched, but they stood. United.
A gust of wind carried the scent of ash and blood.
They were here.
Across the valley, Mara's forces emerged from the gloom—an endless tide of shadows, twisted wolves, and cloaked figures reeking of corrupted magic. At their center was Umbrafang, a behemoth wreathed in black smoke, its glowing eyes like dying stars.
