Page 59 of Fated Wolf's Redemption

“Anything moving?”

“Not yet. But the air’s getting mean.”

Lucas clicks off and glances at me. “It’s not just the air.”

We follow the corridor deeper, and it leads us to something I didn’t expect. The room is different from the others. Smaller, circular, carved entirely from black stone. The ceiling is domed; the floor raised in a perfect circle, and at its center lies a broken blade… and not just any blade.

I rush forward and drop to my knees before it. The Windwoven sigils on the hilt are unmistakable. A crack runs down the middle of the metal; something more than mere use has dulled its edges. Elemental scorch marks trace up the blade’s length. I reach out with trembling fingers and run a hand along the flat.

“My father’s,” I whisper. “This was his.”

Lucas crouches beside me. “How do you know?”

I don’t answer. I can’t. My vision starts to haze, like fog curling along the edges of my sight. The glyphs on the wall shimmer. The air crackles, and the blade burns hot under my palm.

Then I’m gone.

The vision strikes with the intensity of a lightning bolt—swift and all-consuming, leaving no room for anything else. I see her vividly.

Lina stands before the imposing gate, its grandeur and intimidation far more formidable than I ever imagined. Intricate, deep carvings desecrate her alabaster-pale skin, disrupting its once pristine smoothness like ancient runes etched into sacred stone. She's methodically etching glyphs into her arms, her chest, and her neck with the precision of an artist creating a masterpiece, each stroke deliberate and exact. However, she employs no ordinary tools; instead, her fingers work the magic, their nails extended unnaturally andtipped with sharp black stone resembling obsidian talons. Each incision brings the glyphs to life, fiercely glowing with an ethereal luminescence that slowly fades, as if the blood drawn nourishes these mystical symbols.

Behind her, Cain's voice rises, chanting with a resonance that seems to originate from a realm far beyond human comprehension, guttural and raw like the growl of an ancient beast. The words he speaks are foreign to me, perhaps an ancient language lost to time, but the gate comprehends them perfectly. It pulses and thrums, a living entity in sync with his rhythmic incantation, responding to the call. As Lina lifts her hands, commanding the very air with an unseen force, a column of translucent windglass emerges from the floor. It rises with an elegant grace, aligning itself with the gate's center with a decisive, resonating click, as if a lock has finally found its destined key.

I scream, and the vision shatters into fragments.

My back hits the stone floor of the altar room, my lungs dragging in air like I’ve been drowning.

Lucas is already beside me, arms around my shoulders, voice low and urgent in my ear. “Sophia. Talk to me.”

I blink. The ceiling spins. “It was her. She’s carving the glyphs into her own skin. Cain was behind her—he’s... he’s changed.”

“Changed how?”

“Not mortal anymore.” I clutch at his shirt. “And the gate… they’re not trying to open it from here. They’re anchoring it from the other side.”

Lucas goes still. “Say that again.”

I swallow hard. “They’re not trying to open the gate from our side.”

Before he can answer, the chamber shudders. The glyphs on the walls flare to life, igniting in sequence like someone lit a fuse beneath the stone.

The heartbeat returns—louder.

Faster.

The gate has found us again. And this time, it’s not content with whispering… it’s coming.

The scent of copper and ozone clings to my skin like oil as I rise slowly to my knees. I still hold the broken blade—my father’s—and it pulses faintly, as if the vision I just survived hasn’t finished with me yet. My breath drags in sharp and fast. My heart feels like it’s trying to tear itself out of my chest.

Lucas kneels beside me, both hands firm on my shoulders. “Sophia.”

I blink hard. The flickering afterimage of Lina’s face—calm, cruel, exultant—won’t leave me. The glyphs carved into her arms, her neck, even her face. Blood soaking into skin like ink on parchment. Cain’s chanting, that voice not his anymore, in a tongue I don’t understand but still somehow recognize. And the gate pulsing in time with it.

“I saw it,” I whisper.

Lucas’s jaw tightens. “Tell me.”

“They’re not trying to open the gate from our side,” I repeat, as if I can’t quite believe it. My voice cracks, and I grip his forearm for balance. “They’ve already opened it from the other.”

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