The dawn light filtered through the high windows of the ancient oracle’s sanctum, turning the stone walls to pale gold. The neutral ground’s meeting circle had emptied hours ago, packs scattering back to their territories with uneasy truces and whispered promises. Emily and her seven mates had been escorted—half invitation, half escort—deeper into the mountain to the hidden chamber where the last living oracle of the Lunari still resided.
The air smelled of cedar smoke, dried sage, and something older: time itself.
The oracle waited on a raised dais of black obsidian. She was small, hunched, skin like weathered parchment, eyes milky white yet piercing. Her name was Seraphine, and she had not left this chamber in three centuries. A single silver chain hung around her neck, bearing a nine-
