The Mist Claims All
A Darkness That Demands
Its Due
“If you look back, the magic breaks and you’ll get lost.”
Daughters born under the moon are tithe. Payment to the Warwolf Horde for humanity’s protection. Brides for the Wild Hunt.
Fianna was never meant to go quietly.
While other moon-born knelt in prayer, she trained. Bled. Learned to read the ancient runes, searching for a way out of the Accord that bound her fate. She would be more than what the moon made her.
Then the Reaper arrived. The Valas—witches sworn to the old gods—called the Selection. And the life she had fought for slipped through her fingers like sand.
Bound for the Hunt, she finds herself before the Commander of the Ulfhednar. He has need of her—for reasons he guards like a drawn blade. His silver eyes speak of purpose. Of secrets. Of a choice that was never hers to make.
But it waited nonetheless, a noose all the same, always with male fingers to place it around her neck.
Deep in the kingdom of warwolves, the veil her elders wove unravels thread by thread. Fianna finds sisters where she thought herself alone. Allies bearing the teeth and claws of her enemies. And a plague she thought defeated has only lain dormant, now stirring to claim more than she has to give.
The Wild Hunt rides at blood moon. Fianna will make a choice. Let them try to steal it. Let them learn what it will cost them.
