The night is quiet, deceptive in its calm. Moonlight glimmers off the camp, casting silver across sleeping wolves, sharpening shadows into silent observers.
Kael moves through the darkness, careful, precise. His eyes scan the perimeter, not for danger from Malrik, but for prying eyes within his own ranks. He knows who watches, who doubts—but none of that matters tonight.
He approaches Aria’s council tent, unseen, unheard. Only his wolf stirs beneath his skin, coiling with restrained excitement and loyalty.
Inside, Aria reviews maps, her gaze sharp, her posture tense but controlled. She senses him before he speaks, instinct bridging the distance.
“Kael,” she says quietly, without looking up.
“Aria,” he replies, tone low, deliberate. “I’ve come to help.”
Her eyes flick up—sharp, wary,
