The forest was quiet again—too quiet.

Aria stood at the edge of the ancient battlefield, where blood once stained the soil and legends had been written in ash and howls. The trees here whispered with memory, their trunks scarred by the First War between wolves and spirits. They watched her now—not as prey, not even as kin, but as a queen not born, but forged in spiritfire.

A strange stillness pressed down, a hush before the storm. The moon, pale and low, hung like an unblinking eye. ...