The road north narrowed until the trees closed over it like a held breath.
We traveled in a tight, reinforced convoy—three vehicles, twelve wolves including Tristan and me, continuous relay on the bond-monitor channel. The landscape changed by degrees: managed Blackridge forest giving way to older growth, then to the sparse, hard country that marked the edge of formal territorial concern. By the time the foothills rose ahead in a blue-gray line, the air itself felt thinner, as if the world had less interest in supporting ordinary life.
Tristan sat beside me in the lead vehicle with his injured ribs braced and his attention divided between the road and the open channel of the bond. Every few minutes I felt him check the connection the way another man might check a weapon—confirming weight
