A very old, very angry book.

Einar crouched in the ruins of the Oslo Vault, the last stronghold of Ragnarok Libros. Above, through a shattered dome, the sky churned the color of spoiled milk. The air smelled of ozone and burning yew.

But as they faded, new words crawled up from the margin, written in a hand that was not his.

The world was already forgetting itself. Rivers ran backward. Mountains began to walk. And in the distance, a wolf the size of a cathedral howled—not with hunger, but with the glee of a character realizing it had been written to win.

The wolf blinked. The mountains stopped walking. The sky paused mid-churn.

Behind them, the dome shattered completely. And the wolf—smoke-gray, eye the size of a moon—lowered its head into the vault. It did not growl. It whispered .