D’Angelo’s breath caught in his throat as he took in the strange and beautiful landscape of the rift.

  The sky above was like a canvas smeared by a dreaming god—shifting hues of green and purple swirled together, painted with streaks of gold, and in the center hung a massive red sun, glowing like a pulsing ember. The air smelled wild and electric, tinged with something unfamiliar. Gravity felt just slightly off, like the world itself was breathing differently.

  He stood on a hilltop with Shadow at his side, wind rustling through the tall, silver-blue grass that reached up to his waist. Strange birds, with crystal-feathered wings, soared far overhead, and far off in the distance, strange trees twisted like spiraling towers.

  But what truly caught his attention was the movement below.

  Down in a valley, nestled between rolling hills, he saw Lupo and her hunting party engaged in a desperate skirmish. A massive herd of boars—each one the size of a small car, covered in coarse, plated fur and tusks that glinted like metal—thundered across the ground. Their roars echoed through the valley like drums of war.

  The wolves were coordinated, swift and vicious, darting between the beasts with practiced grace. Lupo moved like liquid silver through the fight.

  As fierce and wild as it looked, the fight was surprisingly one-sided—and it was going in the wolves’ favor.

  At first, D’Angelo had feared the boars’ sheer size and fury would overwhelm the hunters, but as he watched longer, he realized he had underestimated the wolves. It wasn’t just their strength, speed, or coordination—it was their magic.

  That’s what stunned him most.

  Most of the wolves wielded shadow magic like Jeremiah, slipping in and out of vision with sudden bursts, their bodies melting into black mist as they dodged and struck. But not all of them were shadows in the dark. He saw flashes of flame licking at the fur of one wolf as it launched into the air and crashed down on a boar in a miniature explosion. Another trailed wisps of frost in its wake, freezing the grass underfoot before slamming into a target with a crystalized, spiked shoulder. A third summoned gusts of slicing wind to knock the creatures off-balance. Earth-wielders slammed the ground and sent stone spikes up from the earth to impale or trip their prey.

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  Some wolves fought with uncanny speed, weaving through the battlefield like living blurs. Others held back, releasing bursts of elemental energy at long range, coordinating their attacks to hem in and scatter the herd.

  Lupo’s magic was beautiful—mesmerizing, even.

  A soft haze surrounded her as she moved, and her silver coat shimmered like moonlight on water. At times, she appeared almost translucent, her body flickering like a mirage. To D’Angelo, she didn’t look like she was fighting. She looked like she was dancing.

  Every step she took was graceful, deliberate, almost weightless. The way she glided across the battlefield made it seem as though gravity couldn’t quite hold her. She weaved between the boars with impossible precision, their tusks and hooves always just a breath too slow to catch her.

  But her attacks—those were anything but soft.

  Each time she struck, her body flashed like a shooting star, and her paws left trails of burning ash across the thick hides of the boars. Her magic sparked with every impact, bright silver flares that hissed and seared into flesh. Boars twice her size reeled from her blows, collapsing into smoking heaps.

  To D’Angelo, she wasn’t just a warrior.

  She was a storm in motion. A ghost in moonlight. A force of nature wrapped in elegance. And as he watched her, something stirred in him—a deep yearning, not just to be strong, but to be something like that… breathtaking and unstoppable all at once.

  It was controlled chaos—an elegant, violent dance of nature and power. D’Angelo stood frozen in awe, watching a world that until now had only existed in the margins of fairy tales and whispered legends. The wolves weren’t just beasts. They were warriors. Skilled. Powerful. United.

  With all the magic swirling across the battlefield, D’Angelo could feel it—not just see it or hear it, but truly feel it. The air itself seemed to hum, thick with energy that tingled on his skin and buzzed in his chest. Every spell cast by the wolves, every flare of elemental force, sent ripples through the rift’s atmosphere like waves on water.

  And somewhere inside him… something answered.

  He didn’t know what it was or what it meant. But as he stood on that hill, watching the wolves command their powers with such grace and strength, he knew one thing for certain: he wanted that too. He wanted to be more than just the tagalong, the boy who needed saving. He wanted to fight alongside Jeremiah. He wanted to run with the wolves. He wanted to shine like Lupo.

  He closed his eyes and tried.

  He focused on the hum in the air, tried to grab hold of it the way he’d seen others do. He clenched his fists, took slow breaths, and pictured light or fire or something forming in his hands. He felt a flicker—like the thrum of a heartbeat, deep and distant—but it slipped through his grip like water.

  “Come on…” he whispered to himself. “Do something…”

  Then, a voice cut through his concentration.

  “Well, well,” Ferris barked, stepping out from the golden glow of the rift behind him. “What are you doing, human? Calling on spirits? Summoning curses?”

  D’Angelo opened his eyes to see Ferris sneering at him.

  “Didn’t take you for a witch,” Ferris growled, his tone halfway between suspicion and mockery.