The night air carried the scent of damp earth and pine, the usual comforting aromas of our territory, but something felt wrong. A quiet unease settled over me as I stood outside the packhouse, watching the tree line where the patrol had yet to return. It wasn’t like them to be late. Kane must have felt it too—his stance was rigid, his eyes locked on the darkened woods. The moment the first howl rang through the night, sharp and urgent, we knew.
The attack had begun.
Kane and I moved as one, shifting and racing through the trees, our wolves tearing through the underbrush toward the northern outpost. The scent of blood thickened in the air long before we reached it, and when we emerged into the clearing, my stomach twisted at the sight before us.
The outpost was in ruin. The small wooden
