War does not begin with armies.
It begins with cracks.
The first strike is small.
Barely noticeable.
A supply convoy—food, medicine, weapons—ambushed at dawn.
No survivors.
Then another.
A border outpost, lightly guarded, burned to the ground before reinforcements arrive.
Then another.
And another.
By nightfall, the pattern is undeniable.
“They’re not attacking our strength,” Kael says, studying the map spread across the war table. “They’re targeting everything that keeps us standing.”
Aria’s gaze sharpens.
Supply lines. Weak territories. Isolated packs.
Not random.
Strategic.
“Rebels,” she says quietly.
A pause.
“Organized ones.”
Outside, the camp is already shifting into motion. Messengers run. Orders are shouted. Wolves prepare for movement.
But this time…
It’s diff
