The late afternoon sun settled over Bloodstone in a soft golden glow, casting long shadows across the training field where blades glinted and dust drifted in lazy spirals. A faint breeze carried the scent of pine sap, sweat, and freshly turned earth—familiar, grounding, steady.
Dustin stood at the edge of the field, arms crossed loosely over his chest as he watched a group of young warriors run drills. Maverick paced beneath his skin, restless but thoughtful. The wolf had been quieter since the war, more contemplative. Less fire, more embers—steady heat, not wild blaze.
A heavy footfall approached.
Then another.
Then the unmistakable rumble of Bane’s presence.
Dustin didn’t turn. “You’re stomping. That’s never good.”
Bane snorted. “I’m not stomping.”
“You’re absolutely stomping.”
“
