Korren did not rage when the report came.
He did not shout, snarl, or tear the messenger apart as lesser Alphas might have done. Rage was loud. Rage was wasteful. Rage burned too hot and too fast.
Korren listened.
The surviving scout knelt before him, shoulders hunched, breath shallow, eyes fixed on the packed earth between them. Blood still stained her fur—hers and not hers—and the cold clung to her like a second skin.
“Two dead,” she said hoarsely. “Both killed clean. Hale warriors. Fast.”
Korren sat on a rough-hewn chair near the fire, one ankle resting across his knee, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The flames painted his face in flickering gold and shadow, emphasizing the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the calculating calm in his eyes.
“Describe it,” he said.
The scout
