The granite of the border stones feels like ice beneath Mireille’s fingertips, slick with centuries of moss and the weight of a peace bought with her life. Dusk bleeds a bruised purple across the valley, casting long, skeletal shadows over the clearing. Behind her, the Vasquez pack guards stand like statues, their breath misting in the sharpening cold. She touches the silver locket at her throat, the metal biting into her palm—a final, cold gift from her father.
Esteban Vasquez stands at her shoulder, his heavy wolf-pelt mantle smelling of wet fur and old blood. He doesn’t look at her; his pale eyes are fixed on the impenetrable line of Korrigan pines. The silence is a physical pressure, broken only by the rhythmic click of the mourning cord at Mireille's wrist. She counts the exits—three paths behind her, two steep ridges to the left, and the dark unknown ahead.
Then, the wind shifts. The scent of pine resin and ozone hits her just before the crunch of a single boot on dry needles. A massive shadow detaches itself from the pine trees, stepping into the dying sunlight.
