The farther we went from the festival square, the thinner the sounds of laughter became. The warm glow of lanterns dimmed behind us, swallowed by the crooked archways and shadow-choked paths.
The stone beneath my boots grew damp, slick with moss and mud, and the scattered footsteps of those who had passed before us marked the alley floor in uneven tracks.
The air changed too. Heavier. Staler.
And then—something sharp cut through the night.
I froze. My breath caught when my wolf stirred, ears pricked to the faint, copper-tinged note. The scent of blood.
It was faint at first, brushed thin by the wind, but unmistakable. Each step farther drew it clearer, like walking into a painted scene that darkened with every stroke.
But then… something else hit me.
My pulse stuttered when I caught another scent beneath the blood. Familiar. Distinct. Jeron's scent!
