KELLY THOMPSON'S POV

The scent of pine and cold earth still clung to my skin as I stepped across the threshold of the royal palace, the tangible proof of my relentless search for allies. My muscles ached from the journey, but there was no time for rest-not with Alpha Biansky's North pack sharpening their claws for war. In the quiet of my chamber, I unfurled parchment, dipped a quill in ink, and penned an invitation that bore the weight of our survival.

"Elara Windrider," I wrote, my handwriting ...