Chapter Forty-Five:
The ridge had quieted, but peace never lasted in a pack on edge. The morning sun cast long shadows over the valley, painting the rocks in gold and gray, and the aftermath of the previous battle hung thick in the air. Wolves padded cautiously among the scattered debris, their instincts sharp, muscles taut. Each breath of wind carried the memory of the corrupted creatures, a reminder that the enemy’s hand was closer than they had dared to think.
Lyra walked among the pack, silver fur brushing against the younger wolves, checking on the injured, reading their subtle shifts in posture. Their instincts were shifting. Not because she commanded them, not yet, but because they were listening—biologically—to her presence, her heartbeat, her aura.
Cain walked beside her, mass
