That night the moon was low and puffed and silver, casting an unearthly light on the still glade deep in the borderlands—light and shadow, wolf and witch.

Her name was Sapphire, the final daughter of the line of white witches. Elven, floating, with silver-dewed hair like the river and eyes that possessed the tempest. Her magic coursed through her veins, uncut and untamed, a holy legacy of healing, prophecy, and fury. Spawned of spells and holy stones, she had been purified in moon rituals ...