Mira was alone on the eastern balcony of the Silverfang stronghold. The cold morning air made her skin feel bad. The valley below was covered in thick fog that clung to the trees like a living thing. Everything looked still, almost too still.
Her wrists were free now. The chains had been removed days ago, replaced by a silent rule: she wasn’t allowed beyond the inner walls. Guards watched her, but from a distance—an unspoken boundary, a cage with wider bars.
She rested her hands on the rough stone railing and took slow, steady breaths, counting each one as her grandmother had taught her when fear threatened to take hold: one, two, three.
Beneath her skin, her wolf stirred—restless but strangely calm. That calmness was the warning she ignored.
Then, without any sign, the pull hit her.
