The night pressed in around Helena like a suffocating shroud, the dim light of her dying campfire barely holding back the crawling darkness. Her breath fogged in the cold air as a low growl echoed from the trees—then another. The sound came from every direction. The wolves were circling.
A blur of grey shot past her left shoulder. She spun, sword slashing, but hit nothing but air.
"Crap!" she hissed. "They're fast—too fast."
Another flash on her right. She swung again, and again—empty space.
"Magic?" she shouted in frustration. Her voice cracked into the woods like a challenge. "This is cheating!"
Were they using magic? Or were they simply this unnaturally quick?
Then, as if to mock her further, the white wolf appeared right in front of her—just for a second. Its glowing red eyes met hers with eerie calm before it vanished into the mist like a smug ghost.
"We are the guardians of this cursed forest, not zookeepers," Whitefang said, tone as dry as old parchment.
