Rowan’s figure disappeared into the treeline, swallowed by shadow, and with him went the last fragile thread of certainty Aria had been clinging to.
Her chest burned, fury and disbelief crashing through her in waves. Why? Her wolf howled inside her skull, demanding to know if he was a coward fleeing from death—or a traitor fleeing to the enemy.
But she didn’t have the luxury of chasing him.
The battlefield roared around her. Wolves clashed with black-cloaked figures, their snarls mixing with the Veil’s eerie chants. The ridge was thick with blood and smoke, the air heavy with the stench of ash. Every step Aria took was a fight for survival.
A soldier lunged for her, blade raised high. Aria ducked low, sweeping her leg to knock them off balance before driving her dagger into their chest
