Chapter 12 - The Convergence at Blackwood Pass
Two weeks after the discovery of Malakor’s letter, the warning materialized.
At midnight, the perimeter ward-stones along Blackwood Pass—the narrow gorge connecting the Blake territory to the uncharted badlands of the far north—shattered simultaneously with a blinding flash of blue-white light.
Evelyn was already shifting before the alarm horn could sound. The white wolf exploded into motion, her diamond-tipped coat cutting through the midnight snow like a streak of lightning. Behind her, Sophie and Nathaniel led fifty elite warriors of the unified northern packs, flanked by the towering, obsidian-scaled presence of the Firstborn.
At the center of Blackwood Pass stood an army of shadows.
They were not normal werewolves. Their pelts were dyed pitch-black, their eyes glowing an unnatural, sickly violet, and their bodies scarred with intricate, glowing runes carved directly into their flesh. At their head stood a towering figure draped in tattered robes of ancient northern design, wielding a staff tipped with a jagged piece of black obsidian.
"Evelyn Blake," the roistered figure rasped, his voice sounding like grinding millstones. "The broken girl who refused to stay broken."
Evelyn stepped forward, towering over her packmates, her golden eyes locked onto the robed sorcerer. Who are you? her mental voice projected outward with the force of a tidal wave, silencing the wind.
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"I am the hand that should have crushed you in your cradle," the figure hissed, lowering his hood to reveal a face covered in faded ritual scars. "Malakor’s work was incomplete. The bloodline of the White Luna is the key to unlocking the ancient gate beneath the Spine of the World. Hand yourself over, little wolf, and your pack may live as slaves to the true rulers of the North."
The sorcerer raised his staff, and the ground beneath the pass began to tremble. Dark, shadowy tendrils erupted from the snow, twisting toward the northern warriors like grasping fingers of a nightmare.
