The boundary stones bleed silver under the thin light of a dying moon. Naila stands where the manicured grass of the pack lands meets the rot and tangle of the Wilds, her breath blooming in the frost. A year of exile has not softened the jagged edges of this place. She traces the jagged silver scar on her left palm—the mark left by the ritual blade when Elder Tomas severed her claim to the throne. It hums with a phantom heat tonight, a warning that the blood in her veins is no longer the quiet thing they discarded.
She was meant to die in the frost. Instead, she learned to hunt. The emerald gown she wore on the night of her rejection is long gone, replaced by heavy grey leathers that smell of pine and iron. As she stares toward the distant glow of the pack house, a sudden, violent heat rises behind her ribs. Her vision tilts, the world swimming into sharp, predatory focus as her eyes flash a gold-flecked black, a color that belongs to no wolf in the Northern bloodlines.
She isn't alone. The forest goes silent, the night birds scattering as the air thickens with the scent of rain and cedar.
A heavy tread crushes the dry brush behind her, and Kaelen speaks her name.
