They reached the ridge by nightfall.
The forest thinned gradually as the land climbed, trees shrinking and twisting until they gave way to exposed stone and scrub that clung stubbornly to the slopes. Wind cut sharper up here, carrying the metallic tang of rain and something older beneath it—ozone, ash, memory. Elara slowed as the pull tightened again, no longer a gentle thread but a steady pressure behind her sternum.
North was close.
Not close in distance.
Close in consequence.
Rachel adjusted her grip on her weapon, eyes scanning the dark ahead. The wolves moved differently now—less cautious, more deliberate. Not hunting. Tracking. Their steps fell into a rhythm that matched Elara’s own heartbeat, and she felt the bond respond, not directing them but acknowledging their intent.
Gin
