On the jagged, wind-swept stone of the Academy’s outer courtyard, Avery Monroe began the delicate ritual of soul-mending.

In the Silver Ridge, the restoration of ancestral relics was a sacred art usually performed in the sterile, silver-lined vaults of the Citadel. To see such a divine craft practiced in the open air, amidst the common scent of pine and the rowdy energy of the various packs, was unheard of.

Seated in her shadowed corner, Avery became a silent vortex of focus. Her hands—scarred slightly from years of working with lunar ore but still long and elegant—moved with a grace that seemed to hum in tune with the earth. She was...