The Hollow Temple breathed like a living thing.
The walls, carved with symbols older than the packs, pulsed with a dull crimson light. Whispers curled through the corridors—some ancient, some newborn, none entirely sane. Magic bled through the stones. Not raw like elemental power, nor sacred like the Flameborn's bond.
No, this magic was something else.
It was hunger.
Voryn stood in the center of the altar chamber, arms spread, robes soaked in oil and blood. Beneath him, the sigils had been redrawn in blackened ash, surrounding a crystal of nightshade obsidian. At its heart was a flickering flame—not of fire, but of soul.
Rowan's soul.
And it was changing.
"Soon," Voryn murmured, stepping closer to the crystal. "So very soon."
He could already feel the shift. A ripple in the world's balance. The Flame had spoken—it had accepted Aria and the triplets. Their bond had survived. Fused.
Good.
Let them grow strong. Let them taste unity.
