BLOOD CRESCENT
FAYE
I was aware of the quiet before I even drifted fully asleep. The house was still—or at least, still in the parts that mattered. I had tried to distract myself earlier, tried to force my mind onto normal things—the training, the wolves, the way Ethan had been startled—but as soon as my head hit the pillow, everything seeped back in.
And then I heard it.
At first, I thought it was the wind, or maybe the creak of the old timber in the house settling. But the sound was too deliberate, too rhythmic. Low, chanting words, strung together in a way that made my chest tighten. My eyelids flickered, heavy and uncooperative.
The voice was ancient, alien. I didn’t understand the words—not a syllable of them—but I felt their weight pressing in through the dark corners of my room
