The Hollow Fang fortress pulsed like a wound in the world.
Built into the jagged mountains of the north, it was more than stone and shadow now. The rituals had warped it. Blood-magic veined its halls, breathing through the walls like a living thing. Moonlight dared not touch its towers, and even the stars turned their gaze away from it.
Voryn stood in the ritual chamber, staring at the great obsidian mirror that hung suspended above the altar. The mirror was cracked — not broken, but fractured — and within each vein of glass flickered glimpses of other places, other faces.
He saw her.
Aria Blackwood.
Bathed in golden fire beneath an ancient hill. Surrounded by the triplets. The scroll opened. The words spoken.
And then — the crown pulsed with light.
Voryn's hands tightened behind his back, his sharp teeth clenching as a spike of pain shot through his spine. Not physical pain. Memory. A reminder of what had once been his birthright.
