The wind wailed like a mourning ghost over the courtyard of Black Claw. Moonlight poured silver on stone pavements, and the palace loomed shrouded in an unnatural quiet. But the atmosphere changed—a crack, a break, a rip in the very fabric of the world.

Fire blazed in a vortex, the flames twisting upwards from the ground itself. Wolves sprang back, baring teeth, ears pressed to their heads. The peace spell shattered like glass.

From the heart of that fire, a form emerged. Hair of black ...