“Less than an hour,” he says. “Scavengers have not approached yet.”
Which means the message was placed deliberately and recently.
Ciaran emerges from the trees behind her, expression controlled and eyes sharp.
“She remains in the lower boundary,” he says quietly. “Reviewing patrol logs.”
“Good,” I reply.
Gideon folds his arms loosely. “Your corridor theory grows more convincing by the day.”
“This is operational,” I say. “Not political.”
“It is both,” he answers.
“Not here,” I say firmly.
Authority settles over the clearing like a physical weight.
“Ciaran,” I add, “keep the human away from the east road. She does not approach that site.”
He inclines his head. “I will handle it.”
The warriors disperse at once, tension redirected into movement and purpose. Kieran vanishes back into the trees with two others at his heels, already planning containment.
Gideon lingers a moment longer. He inclines his head slightly, then steps back into shadow.
The clearing empties gradually, leaving churned earth and the faint echo of conflict behind. The deer near the east road is not random, and neither is the timing.
Whoever is orchestrating this understands pressure.
And they are increasing it.
The deer lies exactly where Kieran described it, positioned twenty yards from the east road with its pale belly angled toward passing traffic. The throat has been severed cleanly, and the abdomen opened with deliberate precision, yet no flesh has been consumed. Blood seeps into the soil in a dark, glossy pool that has not yet dried.
I crouch beside the carcass and study the wound pattern carefully. The bite placement is efficient, intended to kill quickly rather than feed. The positioning, however, is intentional and theatrical.
“Single strike to the throat,” I say. “No feeding behavior.”
Kieran stands to my left, boots planted firmly in the soil. Two wolves hold the perimeter in human form, their focus shifting between the road and the tree line.
“It was meant to be found,” he says.
“Yes,” I reply.
I circle the carcass slowly, scanning the disturbed ground. Pine needles have been pushed aside in uneven arcs, and the soil near the rear flank appears compacted differently than the rest.
“There,” I say, pointing to a faint impression in the mud.
Kieran steps closer and crouches beside me.
“That is not a paw,” he says.
“No,” I agree. “That is a boot.”
The tread pattern is shallow but defined enough to confirm the shape of a human heel and toe. The angle suggests approach from the forest toward the road rather than the other direction.
“Recent?” he asks.
