The circle burned with ritual fire.Smoke curled upward in silver threads, carrying the scent of cedar, sage, and blood. The runes etched into the stone gleamed faintly, as though the gods themselves leaned close to watch.

Draven stood at the center, golden eyes fixed, his chest rising slow and steady. His stillness was not weakness—it was dominance honed to a blade’s edge. Every wolf gathered around the circle felt it, the tension pulling at their spines until more than one dropped their ...