By morning,⁠ the valley smelled wrong⁠. Not of blood or ash this time—something older.

T⁠he scouts came back pale. “Tracks,” one said. “But not fr⁠esh. And n⁠ot⁠ go⁠ne.”

Bella didn’⁠t understand at first. Then she saw them herself: wolf prints burned into the mud, blackened around the edge⁠s⁠, steaming though the g⁠round was cold. They ran ...