The night Silvercrest burned silver and black, the Moon hid behind the clouds.

At first, it was only the sound — the low hum of the forest, the whispering wind that wasn’t really wind. Then came the smell: cold, metallic, sharp like broken stone. The wolves on night patrol froze mid-step, their ears flicking toward the tree line.

And then, the screaming began.

By the time the alarm bell rang, the Forsaken were already through the western gate.

They moved like shadows given flesh — ...