The beasts weren't moving out of hunger or chaos.
They were being summoned. A migration twisted into war.
And the ones who should have never touched the old language — the Sanctum — had woke something that should've stayed forgotten.
But now? Now it was his problem. He vanished into the trees. And behind him, the Last teeth watched, unmoving.
Not dead.Not forgotten.
Not forgiven.
———
There was no warning.
Or scent.
No shift in wind or rustle of leaves.
One step Ian took into the deeper heart of Blackblood, and the silence cracked.
Without sound.
But whispers.
Soft, wet things. Like breath against bone. A language he didn't know and still understood.
> "Sovereign of Hollow Flame..."
> "Kin of death..."
> "Will you break… or burn?"
Ian paused beneath a black-rooted tree. The moss at his feet was withered, crusted with a frost that hadn't come from winter. Above him, the branches were wrong — not only twisted, but wounded.
Bled dry of life.
