Red Rock’s territory smelled like dust and old fear.
Not the sharp, choking kind Lyra associated with Thornridge’s rituals. This was slower, sunk deep into the soil—years of wolves swallowing their own instincts to keep the peace.
The pack lands unfolded in low, rust‑colored hills dotted with scrub pines and hulking boulders that gave the place its name. A faded wooden sign at the turnoff read PRIVATE ROAD in block letters. Someone had stuck a smiley face sticker over the last E.
“Subtle,” Lyra said, turning the wheel.
Cassian’s gaze tracked the ridgeline as they drove. “No visible sentries,” he murmured. “Smell two on the wind, though. One older. One kid.”
“Kid first,” Lyra said. “Old ones play polite. Younger ones tell the truth by accident.”
He huffed. “Spoken like someone who use
