The west line had always been the quiet boundary.
Rolling hills, scattered birch, an old stone fence half-swallowed by ivy. It was where young wolves trained and elders walked at dusk. It was not where war usually announced itself.
That was why Luca chose it.
He stood at the rise overlooking the tree break, wind pressing against his coat, eyes scanning the dim horizon where fog clung low to the earth.
"Hold the west line," he ordered calmly.
The younger wolves shifted, nervous energy flickering between them.
One of them—barely twenty—swallowed hard. "You think they'll hit here."
"I know they will," Luca replied.
"Why."
"Because it looks soft."
He had learned that lesson young.
The first time he had led, he had underestimated softness.
It had cost him blood.
He flexed his fingers once at his side, remembering.
He had been seventeen when his Alpha at the time sent him with a patrol too large for a minor border dispute. He had laughed then. Thought it excessive.
