Chapter 24 The Hunt For The Well

Morgan POV The pack house is a graveyard of splintered wood and shattered trust, the air thick with dust and the tang of blood. Fynn’s trembling in my arms, her shadows coiled tight but restless, her eyes wide with a fear I can’t banish. That figure—taller, older, a void of power—left a scar on us all, its words a blade in my gut: *She is the key. The world bends.* I hold her closer, my jaw clenched, refusing to let it take her, but the stakes just shot through the roof, and I feel it—the clock’s ticking, and we’re running out of time.