They skirted the edge of the Frostfang territory, a buffer of raw nerves and heightened senses. Every snapped twig was a hunter, every distant howl a sign of a pack on the hunt for them, or for their own internal demons. The air grew thick with the scent of coming rain and something else: a sour tang of fear and collective shock that drifted on the wind from the direction of the Frostfang dens.
Kael paused, nostrils flaring. Elara saw the tension coil in his shoulders.
“Death,” he murmured. “Not from a hunt. It’s… cold. Stale. Days old.”
A rogue patrol would have been fresher. This was a death that had been discovered, mourned, and was now festering in the pack’s spirit. The pull of the heir was a constant throb, but this new scent was a discordant, screaming note. His shadow-sense, att
