The first scream splits the night open.
Not fear—warning.
I’m already moving before my mind catches up, feet pounding against dirt and stone as the pack surges forward. The forest is wrong tonight. Too quiet. Too still. Even the cicadas have gone silent, like the world itself is holding its breath.
Then everything breaks loose.
Rouges pour out of the trees in coordinated waves—no hesitation, no confusion. This isn’t a scattered attack. This is practiced. Planned. They don’t rush blindly. They flank. They drive us inward.
My wolf stirs sharply, claws scraping against the inside of my ribs.
Fight.
I don’t argue.
I duck under a lunging body, pivot, strike with a force that surprises even me. Bone cracks beneath my palm. The sound doesn’t slow me—it sharpens me. My senses narrow until
