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The Fourth Mark

SCARLETT

The battlefield froze under the weight of that howl.

Every wolf Blood Moon, Shadowfang, even Kael and Darius staggered as though their bones remembered a command older than loyalty, older than packs.

And then… he stepped from the treeline.

Tall, broad-shouldered. His aura was unlike the others not fire, not storm, not shadow. It was primal. Raw. The kind of dominance that wasn’t forced but carved into the world itself.

His eyes found me instantly gold threaded with silver, ...

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