The hill rose gently, its slope dotted with grazing sheep and the dark silhouettes of old oaks that had stood long enough to forget who planted them. From a distance, the figures moving there could have been anyone—travelers, farmers, messengers cutting across open land.
Up close, the bond told the truth.
“They’re splitting,” Rachel said. “Two to the ridge. One circling wide.”
“Of course,” I murmured. “They want witnesses controlled before the strike.”
Maera’s wolves fanned subtly, not advancing, not retreating—just present. Their bodies were language: we see you, we are not afraid.
Gina swallowed. “They don’t look like monsters.”
“No,” I said quietly. “They never do.”
The listeners were already reacting.
A bell rang from a distant village—too early for any schedule, too deliberate
