Emily Rosewood’s Point of View
Raven Hollow, six nights after the Trial
The days after the Ashen Pact’s warning passed like a held breath.
Laughter no longer spilled across the training fields the way it once had. Pups played closer to the dens. Hunters walked in pairs instead of alone. Even the wind sounded different—thinner, watchful, as if the forest itself had learned to listen.
I stood barefoot on the eastern ridge at dawn, mist curling between the pines like ghosts that had forgotten how to leave. My cloak—Sebastian’s, thick grey wolf-fur lined with black silk—hung heavy on my shoulders, but the cold still found the cracks. The wind carried scents that did not belong: charred bark, bloodroot, iron. The taste of them sat on the back of my tongue like a warning.
Sebastian came up
