The wind carried the stench of charred roots and sun-bleached bone.
The fire crackled low, licking shadows against the walls of the stony alcove. Above, the moon hung like a blade in the sky—sharp, watching.
Aira crouched near the edge of the clearing, fingers twitching with raw impatience. "We've been out here for three nights. What if they don't come?"
Kellan didn't look up from his work. His gloved hand moved with deliberate precision as he etched another sigil into the perimeter stones using a narrow bone-blade soaked in iron and blood. "They'll come."
"You don't know that."
"I do." He tilted his head slightly, his smile small but sharp. "They can't resist blood. Or kin."
