Tristan was halfway to the security office when the pull hit.
Not gradual. Not subtle. A yank straight through his chest that stopped him mid-stride.
Maren.
Her name echoed in his skull, soundless but insistent. Not words. Not a voice. Just certainty that she needed him, that something was wrong, that he was already too late.
His comm crackled. "Ash, we've got a situation at the apothecary. Witnesses say the witches attacked Freya's kid."
"Which witch?" Tristan was already moving, boots pounding through snow.
"Both of them, apparently. Two identical women, one terrorizing the child." Mills paused. "Freya's saying it's not Maren, but the crowd's not listening."
"Where's Maren now?"
"Fled into the storm. Heading northwest toward?—"
"The lake." Tristan cut the connection.
The pull intensified, dragging him forward. He'd felt something similar before, years ago, when his mate had called tohim across distance. Blood recognizing blood. Soul reaching for its match.
And even though he hadn’t completed the bond with her or even told Maren she was his mate, his body knew what his mind was still processing.
She was his. And she was dying.
Tristan hit the tree line and shifted.
The transformation took seconds. Bones cracking, reforming. Skin rippling into fur. Ice-blue eyes blazing amber-gold.
The tiger exploded through the forest.
Snow barely slowed him. His paws found purchase where boots would've sunk. Branches that would've caught cloth slid off thick fur. Every sense sharpened to predator clarity.
He followed the pull. Followed her.
The scent hit first. Shadow-cold and copper-bright. Magic and blood mixed together in a trail that screamed injury, violence, desperation.
His roar split the air, raw and territorial.
Faster. He pushed harder, muscles burning. Trees blurred past. The lake materialized through white curtains, black ice stark against snow.
Two figures on the frozen surface. One standing. One down.
Tristan didn't slow. Launched himself from the shore, claws extended, teeth bared.
The standing figure turned. Maren's face. Maren's eyes. But wrong. Too bright. Veins pulsing dark beneath pale skin.
It smiled.
"The tiger comes to save his witch. How predictable."
Tristan hit it mid-sentence. Four hundred pounds of muscle and fury slamming into shadow-made-flesh. They crashed across ice, sliding, claws tearing. The construct shrieked, high and inhuman.
He went for the throat. Teeth closing on what should've been flesh.
The doppelgänger dissolved into smoke. Reformed three feet away, laughing.
Tristan circled, keeping himself between the construct and Maren's crumpled form. Blood stained the ice around her. Too much blood. Her breathing came shallow, visible in small white clouds.
