THE HELL GATES

The wind swept over the Monterary Hills, cold and sharp like a blade honed on centuries of blood. It sang through the twisted pines, rattling their needles like dry bones. The moon was a pale smear behind thick clouds, its faint glow stretching across the rugged earth in trembling ribbons of silver.

At the edge of the cliff, Xavier stood, his figure dark and unmoving against the night sky. His silhouette was carved from tension — shoulders drawn tight beneath his coat, jaw clenched, fists curled so hard at his sides that his knuckles whitened. Below, in the black valley, pale shapes flickered like restless ghosts between the rocks and trees — nightcrawlers, swift and hungry, weaving through the darkness in search of prey.