Jaxon 

The scent of blood clung to the air. 

I stood at the edge of the clearing, my boots rooted in crimson-stained petals, roses crushed underfoot, the sweet scent tainted with the thick, metallic smell of blood. The festival grounds had emptied in chaos after the scream, but I remained, staring down at the body lying unnaturally still beneath the ornate lights and decorations.

Alpha Miras. A visiting alpha from Rivershade pack. His throat had been slashed with surgical precision, one clean, fatal swipe. No scent, no sound, no trace of struggle. The work of a rogue, one from the Blood Moon faction if I had to guess. They were...