Page 120 of The Moonborn's Curse

Twilight. Neither day nor night.

The right time.

She moved with quiet steps, her cloak brushing the ground. The sacred pool shimmered ahead, still and deep, reflecting the first of the stars. The air was thick with old magic.

A buzz sparked across her spine—someone had seen her.

It didn't matter. She had to be quick.

She stepped forward, drew the small pouch of rice powder from around her waist, and poured it into a wide ring around her feet. She whispered the binding syllables under her breath, the ones the Crone had written in faded ink and the margins of a much more innocent page.

A hum began to build in the air as the circle sealed itself.

The wards rose like a glass dome—silent, glowing faintly gold.

Nothing could come in.

The whisper of movement came now from all sides. Figures approaching. The gathered wolves. The buzz of the tribelink spiked in confusion. It all seemed far away.

She let her cloak fall.

Gasps.

She was dressed in the red of her people. Runes in blood on her cheeks and forehead glowed in the low light.

She began the second spell.

Her voice didn't tremble. She had practised it so many times in her mind, in the caves, even in her sleep.

A blood-sacrifice. One that could either bind or sever.

It was old.

Forbidden because not many have survived the pain of it.

But not impossible.

Her hands moved in precise patterns. Her voice rose with each breath. She was vaguely aware of him—a familiar thread at the edge of her senses. A storm pounding against the wards.

Hagan.

He was shouting something, but she couldn't hear it. She didn't need to.

The crowd was growing—alarm, confusion, panic. A few ran for the Oracle. Others tried to push through, but the wards shimmered stronger.

And then—

The knife.

She drew it from the sheath tied to her thigh. Silver. Blessed. Another gift from the Crone.

Her hands didn't shake.

She pressed the blade to her wrist.

And cut.

A clean line from the soft underside to the crease of her elbow.

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