Luna Wolfhart smelled the split in her pack before she saw it. Three of the yearlings stood at the edge of the den mouth with their heads low, ears back, ready to bolt for the lowland trails at first light. She had spent the whole moon telling them the old story: that a sacred hunting ground waited past the marsh, where the game was fat and the water ran clean. They had listened. They no longer believed. Without proof by morning, half her pack would be gone, and the journey she had promised would end before her paws touched the trail. Her father had led them here to the stone hills before the sickness took him. He left Luna the pack and the legend and nothing to hold either together. The elders wanted to stay. The young ones wanted meat now. Luna wanted the grounds her father had described with his last breaths, but wanting was not a token she could drop at their feet. She climbed alone before dusk, up past the tree line, into the ribbed stone formations that rose like a giant's ribs from the ridge. The hunters avoided the place. The stones hummed at night. Luna pushed through a narrow slit in the rock and found a passage her father had once described in a story she thought was only a story. The passage opened into a chamber lit blue. Cold light poured from a den built of shadow and slow-turning smoke, its towers curling in on themselves like a bad dream. A shape stepped out of the doorway. He was a wolf, but taller than any wolf she had known, his coat the red of fresh kill, his eyes the same red pushed brighter. He did not growl. He watched her the way an elder watches a pup near a cliff. "You are the one who keeps telling the story," he said. "Take a thing back with you, or stop telling it." He turned his head toward a low stone shelf. On it sat a glass sphere the size of her skull. Inside, small yellow lights moved in slow spirals, alive, breathing against the glass. Beside the sphere lay a corked bottle of pale blue liquid that glowed faintly, the same shade as the den's smoke. "The orb for your pack," he said. "The ink is the price. You will owe it back, marked in your own paw, when you reach the hive past the marsh." Luna pressed her paw into the ink. It burned cold. She took the orb between her jaws. The red wolf watched her go without a sound. She came down the ridge before the yearlings could slip away. She set the sphere on the flat rock at the den mouth. The fireflies pulsed brighter under their eyes. The oldest yearling lowered her head first. By dawn, the pack was walking.