The night bled into dawn like a wound refusing to close.

By the time we made it back to the clearing, the forest still smoked from what I’d done. Half the perimeter was blackened; trees stood like skeletal sentinels, their branches curled and glowing with dying embers. The moon had gone, but its ghostlight lingered cold, silver, accusing.

Killian didn’t speak. He just walked ahead of me, every movement measured, predatory, his back tense beneath the torn remains of his shirt. Wolves ...