The broken trust among our family, Luca's sacrifice, and the unrelenting attack of the Dark Wolves had left wounds not healable with any treatment. And staring at the features of those who stayed—eyes hardened by suffering and will—I questioned if our heritage was destined to resume its terrible cycle. Though constant, the Crescent Mark's light seemed like a warning: every decision, every drop of spilled blood, had a cost. And now that price was approaching due.
I called a secret conference beneath the old boughs of an oak that had seen many cycles of life and death in the calm darkness before morning. My most reliable fighters gathered around me: Rowan, whose eyes still carried the weight of guilt from his recent betrayal; Jace with his sharp stare; Cassian whose scarred face testified of battles past. Those silver wolves that had long looked over our lineage appeared to materialize in the mist even—even the ghostly guardians of our bloodline.
