They emerged into dusk.
But it was not dusk as Caelan knew it.
The sky above them writhed like a living oil painting, spiraling with strokes of violet-black and fractured gold. There was no sun. No moon. Just an ever-turning spiral of cosmic dust and glittering stars that seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat. The clouds—if they were clouds at all—curled in long, deliberate coils that never dispersed, forming symbols too vast to read.
The air was weightless and heavy all at once. It carried no wind. No scent.
Just the taste of stilled time.
Caelan stumbled forward, boots crunching against fine grey dust. Beneath it, the ground was cracked obsidian—raw and glassy, as though lightning had once lanced this place and never stopped burning.
"Where… are we?" His voice trembled more than he liked.
Seraphyne did not answer at first. Her gaze was fixed on the horizon, unreadable.
Then:
"The Hollow Verge."
Caelan furrowed his brow. "That wasn't in any record. I've studied—"
"It's not found on maps," she said, cutting him off gently. "Only in memory. And not all memories survive."
She took a few steps forward, robes brushing the dust.
"This place lies between realms. Not quite the Kingdom of Dusk and Fang… not quite Veil. It is a scar. The wound left by the first Sundering."
As she spoke, the ground beneath them began to hum.
Not loud—barely audible. But Caelan felt it in his bones, a low, spiraling vibration, as if something far beneath the earth was turning.
"This is where the Veil first bled," she continued. "Where Lyssandra sealed the rift opened by the Watcher. Where she broke the First Crown."
Caelan's hand instinctively went to the twisted black pendant now hanging beside the silver one on his neck. The heat had returned—not burning, but present. Like it was waiting.
Then the dust at their feet began to drift outward, pulled by something unseen. The ground cracked, not from force—but from absence. A hole opened ten paces ahead of them. Not jagged. Not natural.
A perfect spiral.
Smooth. Dark. Silent.
From within it… something rose.
No noise. No flash.
It simply… was.
The Sentinel.
It wore robes of layered night, constantly shifting in unseen winds. Its face was a blank, ivory mask—flawless save for a spiral etched in gold across its brow. It did not walk. It did not float. It stood, and that alone was enough to command the entire Hollow Verge.
Caelan's breath caught in his throat.
Seraphyne drew closer to him, voice barely a whisper. "One of the Watcher's remnants. A guardian bound to memory."
The Sentinel raised its hand.
Not as a threat—but as a summons.
Caelan stepped forward slowly. He didn't know why. His body moved before his thoughts caught up.
The mists parted before him like curtains revealing a stage. And in the distance, the moor shifted.
Twelve towering stones stood in a great circle—black monoliths inscribed with faint silver spirals. They glowed softly, one by one, as if responding to his presence. The sky above them twisted to match their rhythm.
And around the stones… symbols drifted.
Not drawn. Not carved. Floating. Glowing glyphs, like ancient words written in memory rather than ink.
One of them broke free.
It hovered before Caelan, then dove into his chest—no pain, no resistance—just sudden knowing.
A voice, older than breath:
"Ten crowns sleep. One wakes. One remembers."
Caelan staggered. "What does it mean?"
"They're waking," Seraphyne murmured. "The thrones that predate kingdoms. Not all were lost. Some were hidden. Others… were buried."
Suddenly, a howl rose in the distance.
Low. Long. Feral.
A wolf's howl.
Another answered it.
Then another.
Twelve voices sang into the Hollow Verge—an eerie harmony of power, mourning, and recognition.
Caelan's eyes widened. "That's…"
"The Twelve Packs," Seraphyne said.
"But why now?"
"Because they feel it too," she whispered. "The spiral has turned."
And then—
A different howl.
Not of flesh.
But of force.
A sound not made by lungs or throat, but by the Veil itself—a rupture disguised as a call.
The air trembled.
The Sentinel moved for the first time—approaching Caelan with slow, weightless steps. It extended its hand again.
But this time, something formed within its palm.
A shard.
Of a crown.
Not whole.
But unmistakable.
It shimmered with the same spiral sigil—cracked, twisted, and bleeding thin trails of silver shadow. Caelan hesitated, breath catching in his throat. Every instinct screamed not to touch it.
He did anyway.
The moment his fingers brushed it—
—his mind was torn open.
He saw:
– Lyssandra standing before a sea of fire, hurling the Crown into a pit of stars.
– A figure in gold armor being devoured by a mass of writhing wings.
– A city split in two by a spiral of light.
– A throne made of bone, crumbling beneath a child's scream.
– A ring. Twelve thrones. All empty.
He gasped and dropped to his knees.
Seraphyne was beside him in an instant, her hand gripping his shoulder.
Above, the spiral in the sky widened. Slowly. Deliberately.
Not threatening—yet not benign.
And from the far horizon, just above the black cliffs, a shape stood.
Not made of mist.
Not part of vision.
Real.
A man.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Draped in black wolfhide and pale moonlight. His eyes—burning amber—locked on Caelan across the impossible distance.
Caelan's heart stopped.
Raen Wyrmholt.
The Werewolf King.
Here.
Watching.
Caelan blinked, and the figure vanished.
The Verge unraveled.
Reality snapped back.
He stood at the edge of the tomb with Seraphyne.
The pendant at his chest no longer pulsed.
The shard?
Gone.
Only the whisper remained:
"One remembers."
He looked up.
The stars above the tomb were back.
But they turned now—so faintly, so slowly—
In spirals.
Waiting.