CHAPTER EIGHTY
As Tristan and I crest the final hill, the scent of smoke assaults my nostrils, sharp and acrid. Below us, the Silver Paws village is a maelstrom of snarling figures and flashing teeth. The rogue wolves, dark shapes against the chaos, weave in and out of combat with vicious precision. My heart pounds like a war drum in my chest, and my hands grow warm with the beginnings of flame.
"Tristan," I gasp, my voice barely audible over the clamor below. But he's already moving, his body tensing for the fight.
"Stay close!" he yells back at me, the muscles in his jaw flexing with determination.
We race down the hillside, our paws kicking up clods of earth. As we draw closer, the sounds of battle become overwhelming—the snapping of jaws, the yelps of pain, the shouts of my packmat
