The stronghold did not sleep after Elder Thorne’s death. It breathed.
Low voices and hurried footsteps reverberated through the stone halls. Even as dawn drew near, torches burned brightly, their flames restless, snapping as though they sensed the tension winding inside the mountain.
Mira sensed it before she saw it, and the group was changing.
She stood at the narrow window of the outer chamber, watching Silverfang wolves gather in small clusters below. They spoke in hushed tones, heads bent close, eyes sharp. When some of them looked up and noticed her, their expressions hardened.
Not hatred alone but in fear.
And fear was far more dangerous.
The bond stirred uneasily, tugging at her chest. Ryker felt it too—she knew because moments later, the door opened and he stepped inside, his
