Chapter 94
The circle waits.
It is dusk now, the last slivers of sunlight fading into the treeline, the sky bruised purple and red above the forest. A hush rolls over White Stone as wolves gather in a wide ring, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, eyes locked on the stretch of bare earth in their midst. The soil there is not like the rest of the land. It is a cursed red-brown, stained by centuries of blood. Nothing grows here, not even weeds—the ground itself remembers death too well.
Tonight, that memory will be fed again.
Cameron steps into the circle. His boots crunch on the brittle dirt, his shadow long under the silvering light. He looks calm—too calm, some think—dressed not like a wolf at war but like a man leaving his office: dark shirt rolled up at the sleeves, slacks neat despite the dust.
He doesn't radiate the brawler's hunger, but there's something else about him. A steadiness. An aura that prickles at the skin of those who watch.
