*Julian*

The wind cuts across the Montelune slopes, icy and unrelenting, whipping against our fur and sending shivers through me. Twilight bleeds into night, and the snow beneath our paws is so cold that they have grown numb. Xamara runs beside me, her beautiful white coat a stark contrast against the dark shapes of my wolves.

Lark and Lorna stay close, satchels secured across their backs, moving with the rest of the pack in silent, practiced formation.

I lift my nose, drawing the air in, tracing every scent the wind carries. Eventually, I catch the smell of dark magic almost buried beneath the pine.

I reach out to the pack...