THE WHISPERS STRIKE
The forest lay under a deceptive stillness. A low mist curled between the trees, softening the moonlight into silvery haze. Wolves patrolled with calculated precision, moving in tight formations, senses stretched beyond the ordinary. Every ear flicked at the faintest whisper, every nostril flared for the slightest distortion in scent. Yet, despite the vigilance, a sense of unease had taken root—a subtle, gnawing tension that crept beneath fur and skin alike.
Lykos moved at the forefront of the patrol, silver aura flaring faintly, wolf instincts humming in harmony with his thoughts. The breach from the previous night had left a residue—whispers that echoed in corners of perception, shapes that flickered just beyond vision, small fissures of doubt that had begun to gnaw
