The Stray Moon
The patrol forms up behind, boots crunching in synchronized rhythm, a sound as crisp as bone underfoot.
We are six tonight, counting me. Four betas, muscle and hunger layered in quilted black and the kind of nervous energy that only comes when the moon is full and the law is at stake. Two scouts, lean and silent, both with scars that speak for them. I hand-picked every one for what happens next.
“Eyes up,” I say, not raising my voice. I don’t need to.
Bab Populer