The battlefield was stained with blood and moonlight.
The echoes of the fight still rang in Caroline’s ears—the sound of snarls, of blades clashing, of wolves hitting the dirt with finality. The scent of iron clung to the air, thick and suffocating, mixing with the raw scent of sweat and shifting bodies.
Ezra stood in the center of it all, his chest rising and falling heavily, his golden eyes burning with a fire that refused to die down. His fists were still clenched, his body still tense, even as the exiled wolves retreated into the darkness of the trees.
It wasn’t a victory.
It was a warning.
Caroline’s breath was uneven as she wiped the blood from her blade, her fingers trembling, shaking—not from weakness, but from something she couldn’t yet name.
She had fought before.
She had
