The morning after the fire‑dance, Nightfall woke to bad news.
A patrol had found tracks — too many, too fresh — along the northern ridge. Not deer. Not elk. Wolves. At least four, maybe five. Not Nightfall, not any allied scent Aria recognized.
By midday, the hall had turned into a quiet storm.
Maps spread. Voices lowered. Orders given and taken without shouting. Aria watched it swirl around her and felt a familiar hum under her skin — not the bond this time, but the restless itch of wanting to do something.
Rowan’s voice cut clean through the low buzz. “We split into three teams,” he said. “North, northwest, and the ravine line. No lone heroics. If you see more than you can handle, you pull back and signal. I don’t want bodies. I want information.”
He started assigning names. When he
