Smoke curled like torn silk over the ruined courtyard of the Alpha King’s fortress. The air was thick with the iron scent of blood and the bitter tang of burned stone. Wolves—some wounded, some barely standing—moved among the fallen, tending to their own with quiet reverence.
It should have been a moment of triumph. They had held the walls against the Shadow Fang’s assault. The enemy was driven back into the woods. But even victory tasted hollow.
Lucian stood near the ramparts, his armour shredded, his jaw tight. His eyes—silver fire under the dying moon—scanned the dark horizon. Too easy, he thought. The rogues had retreated too cleanly, their attack too measured. It hadn’t been a defeat—they had been testing the fortress, gauging its strength.
Lyra approached silently, her steps light
