Scarlett’s POV

The blood moon is wrong.

It doesn’t rise—it bleeds into the sky, slow and swollen, staining the clouds a deep, violent red. The night bends beneath its weight, stars dimming as though frightened into silence. Even the wind retreats, leaving the clearing unnaturally still.

We stand before the ancestral stones.

Not as a pack.

Not as allies.

But as witnesses to something ancient reaching the end of its patience.

The stones tower ahead of us, jagged and massive, carved ...