For several heartbeats, I can only stare at them.
A dozen rogue wolves, creatures who spent their entire lives resisting every kind of order, lower their bodies to the ground in a single unified motion. Their chests drop. Their front paws stretch out. Their heads bow low. Their eyes glow the faintest silver, like thin moonlight trapped behind their pupils.
It is not aggression. It is not fear. It is submission. To me. My wolf goes still. Not confused. Knowing. I, however, am not ready to accept any of this. Rogues do not bow. Not to ranked wolves. Not to kings. Not to death itself.
Yet here they kneel, breath syncing with mine, bodies trembling with an instinct they cannot fight. They are waiting. Waiting for direction.
Waiting for orders. Waiting for me.
My jaw tightens as I shift ba
