The moon hung low, casting a silvery glow over the eastern ridge. The forest trembled, as if it, too, sensed the storm to come.
Lucian sat atop his black warhorse, his wounds still aching beneath the armor, but his grip on the reins was steady. His warriors stood behind him in rows, silent and ready. Aria rode beside him, cloaked in midnight blue, her hair braided back, her eyes fierce.
“You don’t have to fight,” Lucian said for the hundredth time.
“And let you go alone?” Aria answered, her gaze never leaving the tree line ahead. “Not a chance.”
The air grew thick with the scent of rogues—filthy, bitter, and bloodthirsty. Then a howl shattered the night. Another answered it. Then another.
They were here.
Lucian raised his hand. The pack tensed, ready.
From the shadows, Kane stepped
