The mountain wind was a freezing, exhilarating roar against my fur as we cleared the massive iron gates of the Stronghold. Shifting had been seamless this morning, a violent, beautiful burst of energy that left me standing on four paws, the enchanted sinew of my necklace stretching perfectly to accommodate my wolf.
And then, we ran.
At first, I braced myself for the familiar, crushing weight of rejection—the inevitable moment where the rest of the pack would surge ahead, leaving me to choke on their dust in the back. That was how it had always been in the South. I was the runt; I was the afterthought.
But as the trees began to blur into a green and gray smudge, a sudden realization hit me. I wasn't in the back.
I flicked my ears, my paws striking the dirt in a steady, rhythmic cadence.
