The dawn did not bring light, only a bruised, heavy grey that promised a killing frost. The air at the edge of the Black Stream was so cold it felt like inhaling powdered glass.
Lorenzo and I stood at the head of the vanguard. Two hundred wolves, the pride of the Black Ridge, stood behind us in absolute, eerie silence. There was no growling, no snapping—only the collective, rhythmic breathing of a pack that had found its singular purpose. Through the Adhiero bond, I could feel them all; I was the secondary node, the bridge through which Lorenzo’s iron will flowed into every warrior.
On the opposite bank, the Eastern Pack had gathered. Silas was there, no longer in furs, but stripped to his waist despite the freezing wind, his chest covered in ritualistic scars. He had nearly three hundre
