Werewolf Realm
The air in the mountains was thick with pine and smoke.
The den stretched across the cliffs, its halls cut into living stone, lit by fire pits that never burned out. From the higher terraces, the land spilled wide—forests as old as time, rivers running silver under the moonlight. To a stranger, it was wild. To the wolves, it was home.
Dera stood in one of the training courts carved into the mountain's side. The ground was rough, uneven, stained from years of claws and blades cutting into it. Her chest rose and fell with each breath, sweat clinging to her back. The knife in her hand spun once before she gripped it firm again.
Her boots dug into the dirt as she slashed forward, quick and clean, the sound sharp in the night. She didn't need targets anymore. The images in her head were enough. Shadows of her dreams, memories pressing against her hands until the movements felt less like practice and more like remembering.
The runes came too.
