When Kira said his name, the wind changed.

Not a breeze.

Not a whisper.

A command.

Like the trees bowed to it. Like the sky held its breath for it.

“The first King of Wolves,” I repeated, heart pounding. “He’s dead.”

“No,” she said, kneeling before the map. He’s sealed. Bound in a prison of bone and magic, buried where no moonlight touches.

“And you think he’s waiting for me?”

“No, Ardyn,” she whispered. “He’s calling you.”

The Southern Ruins

Kael ...