The silver wolf hadn't appeared again.
Five nights I'd spent in the eastern forest after the full moon, stationed at the ridge where my guards first spotted her. Five patrols. Five empty perimeters. Whoever she was, she'd slipped through Darkmoon's borders once and vanished.
Razor hadn't let it go.
She was ours, he'd said that first night, pacing behind my ribs with restless energy. Go back. Find her.
I'd refused. What I'd caught during those frantic seconds in the forest — the silver flash between the trees, the eyes that burned back with something too fierce for fear — didn't match any intelligence we had. No neighboring pack ran silver wolves. No rogue had been reported. And the scent was wrong.
I'd thought she was the tribute. Vane. Her eyes matched. Level and unblinking, carrying
