Chapter 17

Weston

The priest tilted his head. “I once believed the prophecy was a warning. Now I know it was a countdown.”

I met his gaze and pressed, “Open it.”

For a moment, he hesitated, then lifted the lid. The pages rustled not from breeze but from some latent power stirring within the parchment.

The first illustration was a wolf with silver eyes—ancient blood incarnate. A female figure. Alex. Even without her name written in faded ink, I recognized her. The next plate revealed darkness pouring across a battlefield, a lone figure commanding an army. Sebastiano. Dominic muttered a curse so quietly I almost missed it.

“The Blood Moon Prophecy,” the priest whispered, voice almost reverent. He slid the volume toward me as I read aloud with deliberate care, each word striking me like an omen: