The Boundary Ravine was a wound carved into the earth, a sheer, terrifying drop of jagged black stone where the rushing, icy waters of the Roaring River cut the fertile Blackwood valley from the brutal, vertical rise of the Grey Mountains.
Today, the ravine was a theater of war.
On the southern bank stood the Blackwood warriors, dressed in their polished leather armor, their banners of silver and pine fluttering in the freezing wind. At their head stood Caleb. Even from across the fifty-foot chasm, Ariah could see the toll the last few days had taken on him. The golden, sun-kissed Alpha of the valley looked haggard, his face pale and drawn, his hair unkempt. The scent of him—usually a clean, cedarwood breeze—was rancid, soured by a toxic cocktail of sleeplessness, wounded pride, and a ra
