Tucked deep in the mountains, this town doesn’t fear the dark; it invites it in. It remembers things the rest of the world forgot: The taste of blood in old rainwater. The way the wind goes still before something breaks. The quiet sound teeth make when they’re bared in the dark. The streets breathe old magic. The shadows stretch when you’re not looking.

And then she arrives, marked by power, unknowingly claimed by myth. Lorewood reaches for her—as do the monsters. Except for the one carved from shadow and slick with blood. Older than empires. More relentless than death. A creature made of bone-deep hunger and the dark between stars. He doesn’t want her softness, her storm, her fire; he wants her gone.

Lorewood doesn’t care what he wants, and she cares even less. But when something ancient rises to claim her—when holy men come carrying hate and stolen magic—it won’t be gods or gospel that answer. It will be fire and the monster who would kneel for her, with blood on his teeth and wildflowers in his hair.