gh unforgiving terrain had honed his senses to a razor's edge. The forest of Crescent Pines was a familiar hunting ground, a place whe

his hip, and a satchel containing various herbs and tinctures. Unlike the thrill-seekers who occasionally ventured into the

fueled his every hunt. He knew their signs – the oversized paw prints in the mud, the faint musky scent that lingered on the wind, the unnatur

rayed too close to human settlements. He understood the delicate balance that existed, the unspoken agreement that

woods, livestock disappearing without a trace, unsettling howls echoing through the night. And Dorian himself had notice

s different – acrid, tainted, like ozone after a lightning strike. He suspected it belonged to the Mirefangs, a notorious group

hunters, of packs that adhered to a stricter code, groups that sought to maintain the separation between their world

ssion of the animal suggested it was a threat that needed to be eliminated. It was during this tracking that he had caught a fleeting glimpse of another Lycan, a silver-furred

ere was an undercurrent of something else, a solitary aura that set it apart. He had sensed a weariness in its movements, a brood

the Mirefangs – mixed with the metallic odor of blood. He had arrived too late to see anything clearly, but the disturbed earth a

he pieces were beginning to form a disturbing picture: increased Lycan activity, the pr

inging to her like the perpetual mist that often hung over the coastline. He hadn't paid her much attention, another human seeki

eading to more bloodshed. But the thought of an innocent caught in the crossfire between Lycan

icate balance of Crescent Pines had been disturbed. The hunter's shadow remained, a silent observer, waiting to see what would emerge from the darkness. His hatred for the Lycans remained, a cold ember in his heart, but a flicker of somethi