The words did not echo, they sank.
Silence followed, not surprise but calculation.
"How long?" another voice asked.
"Minutes," came the reply. "But strong enough to ripple through the wards we placed decades ago."
That earned everyone's attention.
One figure stepped closer to the lantern. He wore a long coat, its fabric brushing the stone floor without sound. A hat cast his face in shadow, though the faint curve of a mouth was visible, unmoved and unreadable.
"So," he said quietly, "the Blackthorn line still struggles."
A low, humorless chuckle answered him.
"They will always do."
The man reached out, his fingers hovering over the stone table at the center of the chamber.
Etched into its surface was an ancient sigil—two bloodlines entwined and violently severed, the mark of a curse born from betrayal and vengeance.
"The Alpha resists," someone said. "He has learned control."
"For now," the man replied.
Another figure shifted. "Do we know what caused the surge?"
