Caitlyn’s POV
The rogue barely clung to life when they dragged him across the pack’s borders.
Blood matted his fur, his body gaunt and broken, as if he had spent weeks—maybe months—running from something far worse than us. His breaths came in ragged gasps, his ribs visible beneath his torn, dirt-streaked skin. He had collapsed just past the outer sentries, a tattered cloak barely covering his emaciated frame. His fingers twitched, curling around something tight, as if even in unconsciousness, he refused to let go.
But it wasn’t his condition that made my stomach twist.
It was the medallion clutched in his shaking hand.
The metal was ancient, darkened with age, but the marking at its center was unmistakable. A symbol I had never seen before, yet somehow felt like I should have known. A
