The blood trail was faint, but it was there. I followed it across the ruined fields, through the withered forest, and past the border stone that once marked the edge of our land. Every few steps, I had to kneel and brush my hand across the dirt, checking for the dark stains. Wolves heal fast, but blood never lies.
The trail curved toward the east, into territory I knew too well. The neighboring pack.
I muttered under my breath as I walked, "Of course. Where else would trouble drag me?"
The trees here still stood tall, green and smug, like nothing had happened. The grass was fresh, the air carried no sourness, and for a second, I hated how alive it all looked. My home was ash and silence, and theirs looked like a painting for a travel poster.
