The flare of the torches didn't just reveal a handful of rogues; it illuminated an entire subterranean society.
Dozens of figures emerged from the shadows of the obsidian pillars. Men, women, and even a few older youths, all clad in patchwork leather armour and gripping an assortment of lethal, silver-laced weapons. They looked hardened, half-starved, and incredibly dangerous. But it wasn't their weapons that made my breath catch – it was their scent.
Beneath the harsh tang of oxidised copper and burning sage, I could smell the faint, unmistakable undertones of damp earth and crushed mint.
Blackwoods, the Static whispered in my mind, the realisation hitting my inner wolf with the force of a physical blow. Our kin. They survived.
But they didn't look like they were planning a family reu
