LIAM’S P.O.V.
The trees were thick with fog and the stench of rot.
We moved in silence. The scouts shifted ahead in their wolf forms, paws silent over damp soil. Behind me, Carlos, Jake, and Zach flanked a handful of Lycaon elites — men who didn’t flinch at screams or bleed until they were dead. Our newer werewolf trainees brought up the rear, barely breathing, their nerves coiled tight.
We’d been tracking the rogues for hours, deep into the eastern woods where the light died and the wind whispered curses.
“Smell that?” Carlos muttered beside me, sniffing the air.
“Rogues,” I said. “Eight. Maybe more.”
“Why’s it always the stinking ones?” Jake grumbled.
“Because clean wolves don’t run with Eos,” Zach muttered darkly.
I lifted my hand and the line behind me froze. A clearing stretch
