Stevie

The checkpoint towards Silver Fang is a shallow bowl in the land, ringed by granite ribs and a stand of old pines that knot together like they’ve been whispering secrets for centuries.

We chose it because it hides heat and scent, because wind slips around it instead of through it, because the stars above look like they’re minding their own business. I drop my pack and roll my shoulders, feeling the ache of distance settle into bone.

We’re safe enough, my Lycan murmurs, pacing the inside of my skin. For now.

“Circle’s good,” Leif says quietly. The tracker from Thorne’s clan moves like he’s half-shadow, half-forest nymph. He presses...