The forest smelled of blood and wet earth.
Ashyra ran ahead of the vanguard, her senses blazing with urgency. Behind her, Silverclaw and Nightshade wolves moved in a tight formation, howls echoing as they drew closer to the southern perimeter. The border patrol station—once a sturdy outpost nestled between pine and shadow—was now a ruin.
Corpses lay twisted and broken across the clearing. But this wasn’t a slaughter—it was something worse.
“This isn’t just death,” Stephan murmured, crouching beside one of the bodies. “It’s as if they were… emptied.”
Ashyra knelt next to him. The young sentry was no more than seventeen. His eyes were wide open, glassy. His chest bore no wounds, yet his veins were black, as if something toxic had been poured into his soul.
“Same signs as the others,” sh
