The camp is alive with the usual energy of preparation. Wolves sharpen claws, check weapons, and pace in anticipation of the coming war. Aria moves among them, silver eyes alert, her wolf humming beneath her skin. The tension of battle hangs like a storm just beyond the horizon.
Lyra moves silently through the camp, unnoticed. Every step calculated, every glance careful. Her hands are steady, her expression calm—but beneath it simmers a storm of ambition, envy, and determination.
She carries vials, small and deadly, the contents shimmering faintly in the moonlight.
One by one, she moves among the warriors, offering drinks, blessing supplies, and whispering encouragement. The pack trusts her implicitly. After all, she has always been loyal… hasn’t she?
No one notices the faintest trace
