The southern winds carried the scent of old fires and wild honey.
Isabella stood at the edge of a cliff, the map clutched in her hand. Below, the valley sprawled like an open wound—jagged hills, scattered ruins, and somewhere beneath the haze, the broken remnants of the Lycan Council’s first fortress. The sun hung low, staining the clouds in burnt gold and crimson. Beside her, Kael scanned the horizon with narrowed eyes.
“This is it,” he said. “Greyfang Hollow.”
“It doesn’t look like much,” Isabella murmured.
“It’s not supposed to.” He pointed. “See that ridge over there? They built a false front after the Southern Accord fell. The real stronghold is buried beneath it. Protected by oath, blood, and scent memory.”
She frowned. “Scent memory?”
He grinned. “Lycan thing. The stones remem
