The Shadow Mother staggered forward, her bare feet scraping against the jagged stone floor. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her form flickering between shadow and flesh as she fought to hold herself together. The hallway stretched endlessly before her, the damp air thick with the scent of decay.
She had failed.
A violent shudder ran through her body, pain lancing through her very core. Lyra had wounded her—not physically, but in a way she hadn't thought possible. She had tried to rip the wolf from her, to claim her as her own, and yet something had fought back. Something stronger.
Reaching the chamber's entrance, she collapsed onto her knees, her fingers curling into the cold ground.
Before her stood a throne carved from obsidian, pulsing faintly with dark energy. Atop it sat a woman so striking that she could not be mistaken for anything mortal.
The Queen Mother.
