The war room of Blackriver Fortress looked like a mouth after a fight—maps torn, chairs overturned, ink spilled like blood across the long oak table.
Thomas paced through it all.
His boots struck stone in a steady rhythm—thud, thud, thud—each step a warning to every wolf within earshot.
Mira stood near the frost-laced window, arms folded, watching the gray horizon beyond the walls.
They had almost succeeded.
“Almost,” Thomas snarled at last, voice dragging across the room like a blade. He stopped pacing and turned to her fully. “But not quite, Mira.”
His golden eyes burned, wolf-bright and hungry. He continued, jaw ticking. “We live to fight another day, but we will not fight today.”
He swept an arm toward the window as if he could claim the world with a gesture. “Blackriver Ridge i
