Rourke POV
They come at dawn.
From the north-western ridge, our shared border, the one the Council loves to call “contested ground” whenever it suits them, as if language can soften what it really is. A seam the world keeps trying to pull apart.
The first howl rolls down the slope just as the sky begins to pale, sharp and deliberate, not the hungry call of a raid but the calculated announcement of intent. It is meant to wake my pack with the message already embedded in the sound: we are here, and you will know it. By the time the second howl follows, closer and angled slightly to carry farther into the heart of my territory, I am already moving, boots striking stone as the pack snaps awake around me, instincts locking into place with grim familiarity that I hate how quickly we’ve had to
