Chapter 11 - The Echoes of the Past
The parchment was brittle, the ink faded to a dark rust-brown, but the jagged handwriting was unmistakable in its arrogant sweep.
Donovan, The orphan girl in the Blake pack survived the ritual. The blood-seal we placed on her mother to suppress the White Luna bloodline held during her adolescence, but our seers warn that it is decaying. If she ever undergoes extreme trauma, the seal will shatter. Keep your eyes on the northern border. When she wakes, she must be harvested before she reclaims the primordial throne. — Malakor.
The name hit the clearing like a physical blow.
Evelyn’s hands tightened into fists, her fingernails pressing into her palms as a cold, ancient fury rose from the depths of her chest. Malakor. The name wasn't mentioned in modern pack histories. It belonged to the dark ages of the shifter wars—an extinct syndicate of rogue Alphas and blood-mages who had tried to eradicate the White Lunas centuries ago to monopolize the raw magic of the northern convergence.
"Malakor has been dead for four hundred years," Nathaniel said, his voice dropping to a tense whisper. "Every chronicle says the syndicate was wiped out during the First Purge."
"History is written by the victors," Evelyn said, her voice vibrating with a dangerous, low hum as her pendant began to warm against her skin. "Or by those who survived in the dark. This letter was written twenty-three years ago. That means whoever sealed my mother—whoever tried to kill me before I took my first breath—is still out there."
"And they know you're awake now," Nathaniel added grimly, standing up. "If Donovan was receiving orders from a descendant or a survivor of Malakor's syndicate, they won't stop at Frostpeak. They'll come directly for you."
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Evelyn stood slowly, her height and presence eclipsing the afternoon shadows. A low, fierce rumble rolled from her throat, echoing off the nearby cliffs.
"Let them come," Evelyn said. "I didn't spend twenty-three years in the dark just to hide in the light."
