As I hit the clearing near the edge of the forest, the scene comes into view: three of them, lithe, muscular, and all teeth and claws, moving with precision. They’ve cornered Asher and my mother, who are both holding their ground, backs braced against each other. Lucien is there too, moving like a blur, but they’re outnumbered. I don’t think. I run. By the time I reach them, Asher is crouched low, striking at one with a feral, controlled fury, his movements fluid, practiced. My mother is holding her own, sharp claws raking, teeth bared, eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. Lucien is a whirlwind, but even he is forced back a step as the rouges press their advantage. I shift mid-run, feeling the familiar burn as my body stretches, bones elongate, claws sprouting, senses sharpening. My first shift in a real fight outside of practice, and the world feels… sharper,
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