The departure from the Obsidian Peak was not the thunderous, drum-led march of a
conquering Alpha's army. It was something far more unsettling, far more
profound. It was the movement of a ghost-tide.
Ten thousand wolves—the "unwanted," the "wolfless," the broken, and the
discarded—stood in the Great Courtyard, their forms silhouetted against the
silver-violet glow of the rising Sieve-moon. They didn't wear the ornate,
gold-filigreed armor of the Southern Packs or the heavy, blood-stained furs of
the old Obsidian guard. They wore simple grey linen and scavenged leather, but
their eyes... their eyes were a sea of gold and sapphire, burning with the
steady, rhythmic light of the Hallowed Dawn.
I stood at the top of the Great Staircase, my silver-white hair whipping around
my face like a banner of ash. My right wrist throbbed with a cold, rhythmic
heat; the second coil of the Sieve-mark was almost complete, a black ink-stain
