The dreams spread faster than fire.

By morning, half the fortress claimed to have seen the unborn. Not as flesh, not as blood, but as a figure cloaked in shadow and flame, small, yet radiant.

In every dream, the child spoke.

Not words of comfort. Not words of unity.

But choice.

“Swear to me. Or burn.”

Some woke with blood on their lips. Others with ash in their throats. One wolf a guard I trusted, was found kneeling in the courtyard at dawn, throat slit open, smile frozen on his ...