The moon climbed the sky like a slow, watching eye—round, full, and cold. Its light spilled over the capital's sharp towers and broad stone walls, turning everything silver and quiet. The usual hum of footsteps, laughter, and market songs had vanished. Tonight, the city held its breath.
Deep beneath all that silence, under the Central Pack's grand halls, the rebels stirred inside the Vein.
The air was damp, thick with the scent of old stone and rusted iron. Walls dripped with moisture, and faint torches lit the hidden paths carved into the bones of the city. Magic, old and restless, hummed in the dark.
Esme sat alone, curled into herself beneath a broken archway. She looked like a child—small, hollow-cheeked, skin glowing faintly under the torchlight. A glamour cloaked her true form, a mask she hadn't let go of in weeks. Her skin was slick with sweat, her breath short. The poison still lived in her blood, whispering its madness through her veins. Purple shadows traced up her arms.
