The moon rode high above the western pack's land, its pale light weaving through the jagged lines of the trees. The air smelled of damp earth and smoke, the aftertaste of torches still lingering from the night the mob had turned on Arin.
Beyond the packhouse, in the shadows where the light faltered, two figures waited.
Lyra stood tall, her cloak drawn close, her face pale in the half-light. She was carved from confidence, every movement measured, every breath under control. At her side, though, Mabel trembled. Her hands twisted in her skirts, her eyes darted like those of a cornered rabbit. The night pressed in on her with the weight of guilt.
"They will find out," Mabel whispered, her voice shaking. "Tristian knows. He looks at me as though he sees the truth beneath my skin. He has sent for Alpha Vale, Lyra. Do you understand what that means? He will tear the truth from us. From me."
Lyra's eyes glimmered coldly. "Compose yourself. You speak too loudly."
