Mira had always grown up at the edge of the woods. Her grandmother's cottage clung to the hillside, a patchwork of stone and ivy, facing a forest that the villagers whispered about but rarely entered after nightfall.
The forest was alive in ways the world outside could not comprehend. The trees were thicker than any man's arms could circle. The mist rolled low and heavy, hugging the earth. And in the deep of night, when the moon was swollen, the wolves sang.
Children were told stories to keep them home: wolves with eyes like fire, wolves that spoke in human voices, wolves that stole away foolish wanderers. But Mira never feared them.
She listened.
From her window, she would rest her chin on her hands and wait for their chorus. Something in her heart echoed back, as if her blood knew the music of the hunt. She dreamed often of running barefoot through the moss, of teeth sharp and gleaming, of golden eyes that met hers in the dark.
