The forest had grown meaner with the descent of dusk. Shadows spilled from the trees like ink, and every rustling branch sounded like a footfall. Rhea pressed deeper into the underbrush, her breath shallow, her heart a metronome of fear in her chest.
She hadn’t slept in nearly two days, just short stretches of uneasy dozing beneath roots and canopies, always with one ear turned to the wind. Her clothes were torn in places, her boots caked with mud and blood from scraped knees, and the forged letter to the Academy was damp against her chest.
Her wolf—the she-wolf inside her—paced restlessly under her skin. The longer Rhea denied her the freedom to shift, to be, the more difficult it became to silence her. The wolf didn’t understand secrecy or fear. She only wanted to run, to howl, to figh
