The silence did not last.
It never did.
Aria felt it fracture first, a thin splintering sensation along the threads that connected her to the land. Not a scream. Not an attack.
A refusal.
She stopped walking.
Damien noticed instantly. He always did now. "What is it?"
"Someone is here who isn't bound by territory," she said quietly. "And they don't want to be."
The ridge above them shifted again.
This time, the shadow didn't retreat.
It stepped forward.
The figure moved with deliberate slowness, a calculated unthreatening pace that made Aria's wolf bristle harder than any charge would have. Cloaked in dark fabric threaded with symbols she didn't recognize, the stranger stopped just short of the tree line.
Then removed the hood.
He was older than Damien. Not by age alone, but by weight. His eyes held the kind of patience that came from watching empires rot and rebuilding something sharper in their place.
Behind him, others emerged. Five. Six. Eight.
All wolves.
