Prologue
The mountain air was sharp and alive, crackling with ancient secrets and whispered warnings. Shadows glimmered beneath towering pines, as if the forest itself held its breath.
In this wild heartland, old magic still stirred—forgotten by most, feared by many, yet fiercely guarded by a pack whose blood pulsed with storm and fire.
Whispers skittered like restless shadows beneath the trees—rogues and exiles, scorched by ambition and simmering frustration, chafing against the fragile peace. They were no mere strays; they were a rising tide, shaped by bitter grievances and a hunger for power that threatened the balance.
Tonight, beneath a silvered moon, the wolves would gather—not merely to claim land or power, but to weave their fates with blood as old as the mountains themselves.
Andrada’s footsteps fell soft and certain, carrying the promise of a storm long overdue.
