The citadel

**Kelly Thompson's POV**

The glacial citadel isn’t a structure—it’s a fossilized scream.

Towers of ice twist skyward, their surfaces etched with the final moments of First Wolves, jaws forever locked in silent howls. The northern lights coil above like serpents, their green glow leaching warmth from our bones. Eden’s breath crystallizes as he traces the helix scar, now pulsing in sync with the citadel’s heartbeat. Kael sniffs the air, his muzzle crusted with frost. “Blood. Old and new.”

Lila’s crows circle overhead, their feathers shedding oily rain. They’ve herded us here, their caws sharp as scalpels. The mirror shard in my pocket hums, its edges whispering of a door I’m not meant to open.

Inside, the walls breathe.

Frozen wolves line the hall, their eyes milky orbs that track our movement. Eden’s boot cracks a puddle of ancient ice, and the citadel shudders. A voice, graveled by centuries, booms: *“Thief. Martyr. Mother. Which mask do you wear today?”*