Glimmering in the underbrush, they reflected the faint, internal light of the woods. The rogue werewolf—or perhaps something far older and more calculating—was crouched there, a predator carved from the darkness.
My pulse spiked. I forced myself to remember Marcos’s voice: Observe. Do not assume. Control the fear. I slowed my pace, drawing my cloak tight against my skin and reading the rhythm of the shadows just as I had learned to read the shifting winds on the mountain. A low, vibrating growl echoed from the dark. I froze. I focused on my breathing, steadying it until it matched the slow, ancient heartbeat of the forest. From the ink-black shadows, a figure emerged. Tall, dark, and powerful. The rogue werewolf stepped into a stray shaft of light, its golden eyes locked onto mine. It mov
