The wind that moved through Blackridge now carried no malice. The battle was over. The Hollow was gone.
But peace… peace was never permanent.
Caleb stood atop the ridge overlooking the pack's territory. Below him, warriors trained again — not for war, but for unity. Crestmoore wolves now wore Blackridge colors. It was strange to see. Stranger still to feel no threat from them.
Beside him, Lena leaned against the ironwood railing of the overlook.
"He sleeps most of the day," she said quietly. "But when he wakes… he smiles."
"Ash?"
She nodded.
"He says he can still feel the Hollow. Like an echo in the back of his mind. But it's not alive. It's… observing."
Caleb's jaw tensed. "Like it's waiting."
"Or learning."
Neither option comforted him.
⸻
Down in the infirmary, Elias sat at Ash's bedside, books piled around him. The boy was sketching.
"What's that?" Elias asked, peering over.
Ash turned the journal toward him.
A symbol — ancient, geometric, but shifting as Elias looked at it. Like a living equation written in shadow.
Elias recognized it immediately.
"No," he whispered. "This is—this was never Crestmoore. This predates them."
Ash kept sketching. "It's from the other place. Where the Hollow was called from."
"The Deep Fold," Elias murmured. "The place beneath the roots of the world."
Ash met his gaze.
"It's still open."
⸻
Lena paced the war room later that evening while Caleb listened.
"There are still sealed ruins in the south," she said. "The Wraithguard spoke of them before the final battle. 'The Mouths must all open, and then the heart will rise.' I didn't understand it at the time."
Caleb frowned. "And now?"
She placed a torn page on the table — one taken from Raith's robes before his body dissolved.
"The Hollow was just the first mouth. There are others."
Caleb's eyes scanned the page.
It listed coordinates. Names. Most were smudged. But one stood out.
Nerael's Spine.
"That's a dead zone," he said. "No pack goes near it."
"Exactly," Lena said. "Which makes it the perfect place to hide another Mouth."
⸻
Far below the known world, in that dead zone…
Something moved.
Not like a beast.
Like a heartbeat.
A low, pulsing rhythm beneath stone and silence.
And in the dark, blind creatures stirred — not wolves, not human. Something in-between. Old blood. Dormant since the fall of the First Howl.
They opened pale eyes.
And whispered one word.
"Return."
By dawn, the war council was already assembled.
Maps were unfurled across the long oak table in the Pack House's lower chamber. Oil lanterns flickered against the stone walls, casting shadows that danced like memories. Caleb stood at the head of the table, with Lena, Elias, Ronan, Bex, and a few trusted Crestmoore defectors seated in a circle.
The air was taut. No one spoke lightly anymore. Not after what they'd seen.
"Nerael's Spine," Caleb said, tapping a spot on the map. "We've avoided it for centuries. Blackridge records show early expeditions — hunters, historians — none returned. Some say it's cursed. Others call it sacred."
"Both are probably true," Elias muttered, flipping through an ancient codex. "The Fold lies beneath it. I'd bet blood on it."
Bex leaned forward. "Then why go there? We ended the Hollow. Burned the second tree. Raith is dead. What more do they want?"
Elias met her eyes. "Power isn't linear, Bex. Raith was a pawn. The Hollow was the key to a much older door."
Ronan grunted. "And what's on the other side?"
"A world that was supposed to stay buried," Elias replied. "Until someone decided to unearth it."
⸻
Caleb closed his eyes briefly, exhaling.
"Then we go. Nerael's Spine. We scout, we study, and if necessary—we destroy."
Lena straightened. "Ash should stay behind."
"No," said a voice at the doorway.
Everyone turned.
Ash stood there, pale but steady, his eyes still carrying flickers of ancient light. He was dressed in simple clothes, his journal tucked under his arm.
"I'm coming."
Caleb stepped forward, shaking his head. "Ash, you've barely recovered—"
"I'm connected to it," he interrupted. "It's not just a feeling. I know where the Mouth is. And if it opens, I'll feel that too."
He glanced around the room, resting his gaze on Lena. "Besides… this started because of me. I'm not hiding again."
Lena looked conflicted — but she didn't argue.
Neither did Caleb.
⸻
The journey to Nerael's Spine took two days on foot.
They traveled through highland forests, across jagged ridges, and finally into a valley where even the birds refused to sing. The very air felt thinner here — like the world had been wounded and had never truly healed.
The Spine loomed in the distance — a wall of obsidian-black stone ridges jutting out of the earth like dragon teeth. No trees grew here. No moss. Just cold, gray rock and wind that howled even when the air was still.
Ash stumbled once. Lena caught him.
"You okay?" she whispered.
He nodded, eyes locked on the ridgeline.
"They're watching."
Caleb turned sharply. "Who?"
Ash didn't answer.
But then they saw them.
Figures — distant, hunched, too tall and too thin to be wolves. Their skin pale, stretched. Eyes glowing faintly like fungus in the dark. They stood along the ridge like sentinels, unmoving.
Elias whispered, "Foldborn."
Caleb drew his blade. "Are they real?"
Ash replied, "They're older than real."
⸻
They made camp beneath a hollowed stone outcropping. No fire. Just silence.
That night, Ash dreamed again.
But it wasn't his dream.
He was in a forest that shimmered in colorless light. Trees with silver leaves bent backward as if hiding from something.
In the distance, a woman stood on a hill.
Her face was veiled in starlight, but her voice echoed through the world.
"You bear the spark."
"You are not the first."
"You must not be the last."
Ash stepped closer. "Who are you?"
The woman turned.
And in her eyes, he saw a thousand lifetimes. A thousand wars. A thousand broken stars.
"I am the First Howl."
⸻
He woke gasping.
Lena was beside him instantly.
"What did you see?"
Ash sat up, gripping his head. "The Fold isn't just a prison. It's a memory. The Hollow… it was part of something bigger. Something that shattered the sky before wolves ever rose."
Elias sat up from nearby, blinking. "Explain."
"There were others before us. Not just humans. Not wolves. Not even hybrids. Things that could bend reality with sound. Their howls shaped the moon's orbit. But they fought each other. The last of them carved the Fold as a tomb."
"And now someone's trying to resurrect them," Caleb growled.
Ash nodded. "Or become them."
⸻
By morning, they reached the entrance.
A crevice between two slabs of obsidian. The air pouring out smelled like rust and lightning.
Ronan grimaced. "We going in?"
"We have to," Caleb said.
They descended.
The path was narrow, and the deeper they went, the more time seemed to bend. Footsteps echoed strangely, light dimmed despite their lanterns, and once — briefly — Lena swore she saw a version of herself walking beside her, older, wearing war paint.
Elias marked the walls with runes to keep them from getting lost.
Then they reached it.
A vast underground cavern lined with glowing fungus. And at its center—
—a tree.
But not like the Hollow.
This one was silver. Its leaves moved in slow, impossible spirals. Its roots didn't touch the ground, but hovered inches above it. Beneath the roots, a pool of still water reflected not the tree — but their pasts.
Everyone's reflection was different.
Caleb saw his father, dying with fire in his eyes.
Lena saw herself with child, standing in ruins.
Ash saw the woman of his dream — the First Howl — cradling a black flame.
Then a voice spoke.
Not aloud.
Inside them.
"One Mouth closed. One remains."
"You hold the spark. Will you ignite it—or bury it?"
The light pulsed.
And from the shadows, the watchers stepped forward.
Not Foldborn.
Others.
Wolves. Dozens. Gaunt, wild-eyed, their coats patched and faded. Survivors of the Fold Pact.
Ronan whispered, "Impossible. They were wiped out centuries ago."
The largest stepped forward.
He wore armor made of tree bark and silver bone.
"You've come to the Edge of Song," he said. "And the last Howl is stirring."
Caleb stepped forward. "Who are you?"
The man bared his throat in greeting.
"We are the Woken."
"The war is not over."
"It has only just begun."