It rose like the spine of a dead god between Silvermoon and Blackfang territory, jagged stone cliffs crowned with glacial fog that never melted, no matter the season. Every exiled wolf who crossed it carried a story, and most of those stories ended in bones.
I reached the border just as the Moon began to wane, her silver halo thinning like a frayed promise.
The Silvermoon wards flared weakly behind me, sluggish and indifferent. Once, they would have recognized my presence, bending gently aside for their Luna.
Now, I was nothing but a trespasser to my own land.
I hesitated only once.
Not because of Kael. Not because of Lyra.
Because of Papa.
The spirit flame pulsed faintly inside the soul-vessel bound to my chest, barely brighter than a dying ember. Every step I took away from Silvermoon tugged at it like gravity pulling a falling star into oblivion.
“Hold on,” I whispered. “Just a little longer.”
I stepped through the Frostline threshold.
The air shifted instantly. Blackfang magic did not caress like Silvermoon’s—it weighed, pressing down on my shoulders with territorial authority, testing the strength of my bones, the sincerity of my intent.