Blood dripped from the edge of the stone basin.
Not Ashen's.
Mine.
I didn't feel the cut. Didn't even remember when it happened. But the basin had called for truth, and it never accepted lies without cost.
Ashara's voice trembled as she whispered the old words, each syllable digging into the air like blades.
Behind us, the flame flickered blue. Not the blue of memory.
The blue of warning.
"She's not stable," Ashara whispered. "Her bond to the Hollow hasn't settled."
"She's not the one changing," I said, tightening the wrap around my hand. "We are."
Lucas stepped into the circle, his boots soaked in ash. "Three packs have gone silent. No messenger. No sound. Nothing."
My breath caught.
That hadn't happened since the War of Sighs.
Ashen stood at the altar, eyes closed, skin glowing faintly like a dying ember.
But when she opened them
She was no longer just flame.
She was something deeper.
Something older.
