For one breath, the lawn froze.
White fur, lit by the lanterns and the rising moon, was not a sight they'd expected.
Not from her.
Not from the “defective wolf" Jolene had whispered about for years.
The rogue leader broke the stillness first, barreling toward her with teeth bared.
Clara met him halfway.
---
The impact jolted through both of them—his momentum, her precision. She twisted, breaking his angle, driving him into the frozen grass. His snarl became a choke as her forelegs pinned his chest.
He snapped at her throat. She let him get close enough to smell the iron in her breath, then drove her fangs into the side of his neck—clean, decisive, final.
The fight ended in one heartbeat.
Not spectacle. Survival.
---
Shouts rose again. Guards recalibrated, shifting to drive back
