The air is colder before sunrise, and it cuts sharper through my lungs while I move along the ridge with the patrol, and everything about the morning feels too controlled, like the territory itself is holding its breath even though the packhouse behind us has started to settle.
I adjust my jacket and keep my pace even while the ground stays damp under my boots and the trees stretch in long dark lines, and the wolves with me stay quiet, but this silence feels focused instead of routine.
We reach the outer line as the light starts to break, and one of the scouts ahead slows and then stops, and his body goes tight before he speaks.
“There.”
Every head turns toward the border.
They are already there.
Christopher’s wolves stand just beyond the line, and they are not hidden and they are no
