Ringed by the somber shadow of the Black Claw Pack and the ethereal veils of the Weeping Hollows, the air was heavy with hopelessness.

Ezra paced along the perimeter of the woods, his heart thumping like a war drum. Larna had disappeared into the realm of the ghost, a realm where even the strongest could not recall the forgotten. And there, before him, stood Anabelle, her once spry form encompassed by an air of reflective fortitude.

"Ezra," she said, raising one eyebrow up in laughter, "you ...