Chapter 5

The revelry still hadn't died by dawn. I slipped toward the birch grove—the pack's quietest, holiest ground. Snow squeaked beneath my boots: eight years crushed one step at a time. The elders were already there—five cloaked shapes ringed around obsidian stone. The air smelled of herbs and ice. “Leona Hale,” the first elder rasped. “You are early.” “Delay serves no one,” I said. “Begin.” Another elder sighed. “The sundering is pain beyond pain. Three trials as one. You...