The breath from the fissure did not rush.
It rolled.
Slow. Damp. Thick with an age that had never seen sunlight.
The courtyard stood suspended in a fragile stillness, every Alpha, every Elder, every envoy caught in that strange paralysis that comes when instinct screams run but pride insists stay.
Another exhale rose from the fracture.
This time, the stone around it trembled in response.
Aria stepped forward before she consciously chose to. Damien's grip tightened on her wrist.
"Not alone," he said.
"I won't be," she answered.
The sickly glow beneath the cracked circle pulsed again, brighter now, illuminating the underside of broken granite in warped shadows. It was not the clean silver of wolf magic. Not the burnished gold of ancient rites.
It was something like moss left too long in darkness.
Something that had learned to grow without light.
The Council began shouting orders.
"Reinforce the perimeter!"
"Evacuate the lower levels!"
"Seal the eastern wing!"
