CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The shadows of the Withered Woods close in around us like whispered threats. Trees, ancient and gnarled, claw at the sky, their leaves an eerie rustle in the wind. It's as if the forest itself watches us, its breath held in anticipation of our next move.
"Ford," I murmur, my voice barely above the sound of crackling branches underfoot, "are you sure this is the right way?"
"Trust me, Skye," he replies, his green eyes scanning the murky depths ahead. "The old paths of the Golden Paw always lead true, even through these woods."
I nod, though unease coils in my stomach like a restless serpent. The Withered Woods are notorious for hiding dangers that even the bravest shifters avoid. Yet here we are, Ford with his squared shoulders pushing back against fear, and me tryin
