The Mountain Ridge delegation arrived at dawn.
Or rather — what should have been the Mountain Ridge delegation arrived at dawn. But the wolves that emerged from the tree line at the eastern border moved with a precision that had nothing to do with diplomacy and everything to do with combat formations. Twelve of them, in wolf form, cutting through the silver morning mist in a tight V-shaped wedge that spoke of military discipline so deeply ingrained it had become instinct. Their fur was dark — charcoal, slate, black — and their eyes burned like coals set into skulls made of granite. They moved in absolute silence. No panting. No breaking of twigs. Just the faint compression of damp earth beneath massive paws and the low, barely perceptible hum of controlled aggression rolling off them like
