The Werewolf's Bride
Kael roared.
The clearing exploded.
Wolves shifted mid-stride, Blackthorn and Ironfang crashing together in a fury of claws and fangs. Elara felt the shift rip through her, hybrid form surging, silver fur rippling, claws extending. She leaped into the fray beside Kael, tearing through an Ironfang scout who lunged for her mate’s back.
Blood sprayed. Screams rose. The stones watched in silence.
But in the chaos, Elara saw it, a flicker of movement at the edge of the circle. A cloaked figure slipping away. Not Ironfang colors. Blackthorn colors.