The tent was completely silent, except for the occasional creak of the canvas when the wind hit it. My breathing was slow, measured, though my heart refused to follow suit. It pounded hard, fast, as if trying to escape my chest.
The air smelled of leather, damp earth, and something metallic that clung to my throat. It was a familiar smell: blood. My blood.
I tried to move, but my body didn’t cooperate. Every muscle felt heavy, every joint seemed fused to the makeshift cot beneath me. The pain was constant, a reminder of what had happened, of how close I had come to losing everything.
Ten wolves. Ten assassins determined to kill me. And then him.
I closed my eyes for a moment, reliving the image of the black wolf—its fangs flashing under the moonlight, its red eyes blazing with an inhum
