The moon was rising, and Eira Aldwynn could feel the fire beginning in her bones.
It started the same way every full moon—an ache in the joints, a searing itch along her spine, and then the slow, burning crawl of silver heat just beneath her skin. It coiled in her veins like molten metal, whispering promises of power and madness.
She gritted her teeth and gripped the edge of the stone sink in the washroom, watching the streak of pale silver hair fall over her shoulder as she bent forward. Cold sweat slid down her temple. Her reflection in the cracked mirror looked ghostly—ashen skin, shadowed eyes, and that cursed mark that branded her for what she was.
Outside, the wind howled like it knew.
"Tonight's different," she muttered to herself. "I can feel it."
From the other room, Aunt Lys called out, her voice hoarse from age and fear. "Eira, lock the cellar. Do it now. You're cutting it too close again."
Eira didn't answer. She was already moving, pulling on the thick iron-braced coat that helped slow the change, just long enough to get where she needed to go. Her boots echoed on the stone floor as she descended into the cellar—the only place in the house reinforced with wolfsbane and blessed iron.
As she reached for the latch, a strange scent hit her.
Smoke. And blood.
Her nostrils flared as instinct surged. Someone had crossed the Hollow's boundary—and not just anyone. She could smell the silver on them.