The warning howl still echoed when the hall emptied into chaos.

Scouts poured through the gates, pelts bristling, eyes wide. Yet when they reached the heart of the stronghold, their voices carried not the call of an incoming army, but something subtler—an unease at the tree line, tracks left in the mud, a shadow too large to be a wandering deer. No immediate strike. Just pressure. Just enough to keep them awake and raw.

Veylen’s signature.

He had learned long ago that the sharpest blade ...