LUCIAN POINT OF VIEW

We rode like men already at war.

The night swallowed us whole as we cut through the forest, hooves hammering against the earth, breath steaming in the cold air. The moon hung thin and pale overhead, barely enough light to guide us, but wolves do not fear darkness. We become it.

No one spoke.

They could feel it in me.

Rage has a scent. It rolls off the skin like smoke, seeps into the air until every wolf nearby grows restless beneath it. My warriors rode in tight ...