The western trade road did not smell like wolves.
That was the first thing I noticed when we crossed the ridge line at dusk.
The air was wrong, too layered, too busy. Iron, smoke, oil, unfamiliar sweat. The wind carried echoes of movement that did not follow pack patterns. No territorial markers. No clean dominance lines. Just chaos pressed into the earth by too many passing feet.
“This place is noisy,” Varek muttered behind me.
He wasn’t wrong.
The road cut through the valley like an old scar, wide and uneven, packed flat by carts, horses, and boots. Lanterns flickered at irregular intervals, their light warm but untrustworthy. Somewhere below, voices rose and fell, merchants arguing, children laughing, guards shouting orders that were only half obeyed.
This was neutral ground.
Whi
