Korren hated the cold.
Not because it weakened him—he was stronger than most, lean muscle honed by hunger and distance—but because cold reminded him of waiting. Of stillness. Of time passing without his consent.
The cave they’d claimed as shelter breathed frost with every exhale of wind. Ice clung to the stone walls like bone-deep rot, glittering faintly in the low light of the fire pit. The flames were weak, fed sparingly. Korren preferred it that way. Fire made wolves complacent. Cold kept them sharp.
He crouched near the edge of the cavern, sharpening a blade against stone with slow, deliberate strokes.
Across from him, a man paced.
Riven.
Korren’s beta.
Not by tradition. By necessity.
Riven was tall and broad-shouldered, his dark hair tied back at the nape of his neck, eyes too
