At the Border

The forest was never truly silent, even at the edge of night, when the last light of day bled into the dark, the woods whispered.

Yet tonight, Jack heard none of it. His ears were fixed on one sound alone, the low murmur of voices carried through the trees, just ahead.

He crouched behind a thick oak, his body pressed tight against the damp bark, every muscle drawn taut.

His sharp gaze peered between the leaves, and what he saw made the air grow heavier in his chest.

A group of rogues.

Half a dozen at least, gathered at the narrow clearing where the tree line thinned into the stretch of borderland.

Their clothes were ragged, their bodies scarred, and their eyes gleamed with the restless hunger of wolves who had lived too long without belonging.

Their voices rumbled low, heated with agitation, as if they argued amongst themselves about something worth bloodshed.

But it wasn’t just their presence that froze Jack’s breath.

One of them stood differently than the rest, his back straigh