Grace
Snow muffled every sound, but Rylan could still hear the forest breathing.
It was a quiet rhythm, ancient and steady—the creak of ice-laced branches, the whisper of wind through pine needles, the soft crunch of paws pressing into frost. Beneath it all, the scent of blood lingered on the wind—faint, human and wolf tangled together—and his lips curled in a silent snarl.
He moved with the other hunters through the pines, four shadows sliding between the trunks like ghosts. Above them, the moon hung thin and sharp, spilling pale light over the trail Kaleb had left behind. It was a broken path, staggered and uneven. Kaleb was wounded. That much was clear.
“Two scents,” one of the younger wolves whispered, his voice barely audible over the hush of snow. “They’re together.”
Rylan didn’
