The howls of the Wolf Clan did not fade. They settled into the bones of the mountains, into the rhythm of the wind, and into the newly carved-out space within Ren’s own spirit. It was a constant, low-level hum of awareness, a psychic map of the Crags now permanently etched behind his eyes. He could feel the positions of the scouts on the high ridges, the restless pacing of the hunters in the lower ravines, the quiet sleep of the pups in their hidden dens. It was exhilarating. It was terrifying. It was a noise that would never, ever leave him.He walked differently as they descended from the amphitheater. His steps were quieter, more deliberate, his body moving with a predator’s instinct for the most efficient path. He didn't need to think about it; the knowledge was just there, gifted to him by the Alpha’s Howl. When a loose stone clattered down a slope ahead, he knew it was the grey-furred scout named Ash-Walker, reporting a clear path to the east. He didn't hear it; he knew it.Lyra

The mist of the Serpent Valley clung to them long after they had left its borders, a damp chill that had seeped into their clothes and their spirits. Ren walked as if in a trance, the image of the sacrificing Matriarch burned onto the back of his eyelids. Her weary, accepting gaze was a heavier burden than any enemy’s glare. It was the weight of a choice he had not made, but now had to endorse. To be Sovereign was not just to command, but to consent to the world’s hidden, horrible sacrifices.The Wolf Clan’s network buzzed in his mind, a stark, pragmatic counterpoint to the deep sorrow he carried. Their alerts were simple: clear, prey, patrol, safe. There was no category for eternal, willing torment for the greater good. The dissonance between the wolves’ sharp clarity and the serpents’ profound sorrow was a grating static in his soul. He felt fractured, pulled in too many directions, becoming a mosaic of the clans he was bound to, a piece of feral instinct here, a shard of ancient gr

The crystalline silence of the geodes felt different now. Oppressive. The dazzling, refracted light no longer seemed beautiful, but chaotic, a visual representation of the shattered trust now lying between them. Lyra had pulled away from Ren’s embrace, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if holding her very soul together. She wouldn’t look at him. Her gaze was turned inward, a frantic, terrified search through the corridors of her own mind.Which thought was mine? Which whisper was its?The Starborne’s warning was a poison seed, already sprouting tendrils of doubt. Every memory of Seraphel’s guidance, the comfort during the Unwritten, the strength during the Union, was now suspect. Had that gentle nudge been genuine? Or the first subtle tug of the leash?“Lyra,” Ren said, his voice careful, too careful. He took a step toward her.She flinched. “Don’t.”The single word was a wall. He stopped, his hands curling into helpless fists at his sides. He could face a corrupted stag, bar

The entrance to the Under-Song was not a grand cavern or a shimmering portal. It was a fissure, a narrow, unassuming crack in the earth at the very base of the Memory Stone, so thin a person would have to turn sideways to slip through. It exhaled a breath of air that was not cold, not warm, but simply absent. It smelled of nothing. It felt like nothing. It was an open mouth leading into a throat of absolute negation.The ancient serpents had formed a silent circle around it, their hum the only thing holding the terrible non-sound of the fissure at bay. Their aged bodies were tense, a living barrier between the world of song and the void beneath it.Lyra stood before the crack, her hands clenched at her sides. She had never felt more afraid, or more certain. The memory of the two melodies, the living breath of the true bond and the flawless, suffocating machine of the echo, was etched into her soul. She could not live with the counterfeit. She would rather risk having no music at all.

The air in the Fanged Peaks tasted of iron and altitude. It was a sharp, thin cold that scraped the lungs, a world away from the damp sorrow of the serpent valley or the crystalline hum of the geodes. Here, the Veins did not flow or pulse; they were sharp, jagged lines of silver lightning frozen in the black rock, crackling with a dormant, dangerous energy. This was not a place for communities or shared burdens. This was a place for soloists.The Cat-Clan did not believe in welcoming parties. Their presence was felt as a series of absences, a flicker of movement just at the edge of vision, a whisper of displaced gravel from a cliff face high above, the lingering, musky scent of a predator that had been watching them for hours. It was an assessment far more unnerving than the wolves’ direct confrontation or the serpents’ patient regard. This was an audit.Ren led the way, his senses stretched to their limit. The wolf-pack network was a dull roar of unease this deep into feline territor