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The War of Eternal Hunger freed witches from the rule of werewolves, ending a patriarchy only to create a matriarchy. A thousand years later, Oriana, Matriarch of Steelcross and Crimson Hunter, is a young, untried ruler who seeks to bridge the divide between witches and werewolves. But how can witches trust werewolves not to hurt them when Rage Disrupter collars are needed to control their lust for witch’s blood and magic? And how can werewolves trust witches to treat them as equals when they’ve built metal cities and armed themselves, literally, with iron weapons of werewolf destruction?

Claws and fangs.

Magic and metal.

Will one side devour the other, or will they find a way to peacefully coexist?

Welcome to Earth Rift, where the moon is black, and the sun is crimson.


Howls slashed across the beleaguered city like claws cleaving a witch’s chest open to devour the heart within. The incessant sound shattered glass windows of buildings. Jagged shards fell like deadly rain, cutting, slicing, and adding to the pools of blood already soaking the urbanscape.

Oriana lifted her face to the starless night sky, sweat rolling from her brow into unblinking, dark-brown eyes. “Wild Moor will be our final stand,” her mother had told her. “If we allow them to take that border city, if they reach Irongarde, the beasts may overrun us. You cannot allow that to happen, Crimson Hunter.”

More howls carved through the darkness, followed by rampaging paws. Oriana lowered her head. This was it then, the final battle of a day-long war. Many had already died, countless by her own hand—in defense of her sisters and by order of her mother, Matriarch Kalinda. Oriana raised her arms, flawless maple-colored skin an illusion of humanity. The liquid steel in her arms mixed inorganic with organic, a potent witch brew of strength and control.

“Come forth Ravagers of the Lost.” Red sun magic burst from Oriana’s hands. Wild flames sparked and hissed. “Control your magic,” she heard her mother say, an old memory from too many lessons that ended with Oriana in tears and the training room walls scorched.

Channeling her flames into her steel arms, Oriana willed the magic down, down. The magic complied. From the sparks and hiss of magic, twin handheld cannon guns formed, covering her from elbow to fingers.

“Shift,” Oriana ordered to her sisters. Like her, sun magic surged through steel and iron arms, turning limbs into shields and weapons in a war between witches and . . .

Across the battlefield—cracked roads and burned buildings—the howling stopped. Silence descended, an emissary of violence, blood, and death. Oriana raised her head to the night sky again, a cursed white moon glowed above. A red moon would’ve favored the witches. Oriana would’ve even been grateful for a black moon. But no, in the city she couldn’t allow to fall, a white moon had risen, strengthening her enemies unlike anything else in nature save for the blood and magic of a witch.