Alden moves forward with quiet certainty, nose low, body flowing over rock and root like the mountain shaped itself around him. He does not hesitate at the ravine edge. He does not second-guess the false loop in the tracks.
He just knows.
The sound of his howl splits the morning.
It rolls down the ravine and echoes back through the trees, deep and sharp and unmistakably purposeful. Every hair along my arms lifts in response.
Ciaran glances at me. “That means he’s on the trail.”
“I figured,” I say, though my voice comes out a little tighter than I intended.
Tomas shifts forward, clearly ready to move. I take a step too, instinct pulling me toward the direction Alden vanished.
Ciaran’s hand snaps out and catches my arm.
“Not you,” he says quietly.
“I can keep up,” I reply.
Before he can answer, a low, warning snarl rumbles from somewhere ahead.
It is not loud. It is not subtle either.
The sound freezes me mid-step.
Ciaran’s grip tightens slightly, not rough, but firm enough to make the point. “That was not a suggestion,” he says.
Annoyance flares hot under my skin. “I am not dead weight.”
“No,” Ciaran agrees. “But you are not chasing a rogue wolf through a ravine either.”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it again. Because arguing with the giant shape-shifting wolf currently tracking a killer feels like a losing strategy.
I fold my arms instead. “Fine.”
Tomas hides a smirk badly.
Kelsey elbows him without looking.
We hold position near the disturbed ground, the forest settling back into uneasy quiet. My pulse is still running faster than it should be, though I cannot decide whether that is leftover adrenaline or something far more inconvenient.
Movement flickers in the treeline to the west.
Jace reacts first, pivoting sharply. Tomas follows immediately, shoulders tensing as if he is about to bolt, or shift. Ciaran’s posture shifts into something far more dangerous, weight dropping and attention snapping toward the shadowed brush.
“There,” Tomas says, already leaning forward.
“Wait,” I say, holding up a hand. The word comes out sharper than I expect.
Ciaran’s head turns slightly toward me. “Explain.”
I step closer to the disturbed ground and point toward the faint break in the underbrush. “Look at the spacing.”
Tomas frowns. “It’s movement.”
“It’s staged movement,” I correct, kneeling to brush my fingers lightly over the soil. “See the scuff pattern. It is shallow and inconsistent.”
Kelsey leans in beside me, eyes narrowing. “Not a full weight transfer.”
