The first sign was not sound.
It was silence.
The chamber—carved from black stone older than any pack’s claim to land—had always hummed. Magic, even dormant, left residue. A vibration in the bones. A pressure behind the eyes. The world never truly rested.
Until now.
The candles lining the ritual circle flickered once… and went still.
Not extinguished.
Held.
The figure at the center of the chamber froze, long fingers hovering inches above the carved sigil etched into the floor. The mark—ancient, lunar, forbidden—had not been activated in centuries. It should have resisted him.
Instead, it pulsed.
Once.
Twice.
Then cracked.
A fissure split the symbol clean through, light bleeding upward from the stone like a wound.
“No,” he whispered, voice sharp with disbelief.
That sigil was
