The next day,

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The fortress stood on a jagged ridge, ringed by sheer cliffs and guarded by three overlapping layers of rune-warded walls. Watchfires burned every hundred feet. Archers patrolled the battlements. Sentries with tracking spells scanned the ground below, their magic tuned to pick up groups, shifting forms, and concentrated mana signatures.

Aria waited in the shadow of a dead oak, stripped of her heavy armor, wearing only black leathers stitched with shadow-silk that absorbed light. She carried no banner, no pack mark, no weapon that would identify her as Alpha or wolf or anything but a shadow.

She watched the patrols turn, counted the seconds between each...