The warning howl still echoed when the hall emptied into chaos.
Scouts poured through the gates, pelts bristling, eyes wide. Yet when they reached the heart of the stronghold, their voices carried not the call of an incoming army, but something subtler—an unease at the tree line, tracks left in the mud, a shadow too large to be a wandering deer. No immediate strike. Just pressure. Just enough to keep them awake and raw.
Veylen’s signature.
He had learned long ago that the sharpest blade wasn’t always steel. It was suspicion.
Speculation had already begun to spread by the time the first rays of sunlight reached the courtyard's remains.
As Elaria moved into the lower floors, she could hear them—voices falling when her shadow touched the stone, wolves whispering around cooking fires.
“S
