The road to the chapel is barely a road at all.
My tires crunch over gravel and dead leaves, headlights slicing through the darkness like a blade. The forest leans in around me—thick, ancient, and wrong. I can feel the weight of something watching. Not a person. Not even a wolf.
Memory.
History.
I kills the engine, silence swallowing the growl of my car, as I step out into the cold.
The wind here cuts sharp, like it knows what's about to happen.
The Glass Chapel stands at the edge of the forgotten land, where no pack dares to claim territory. It was neutral ground once—before the Moon War burned the treaties to ash. Before blood was baptized on these glass walls.
And yet, it still stands.
A ghost of worship, made of fractured beauty.
