Trusting the Enemy
The camp was exactly what it sounded like: a camp. At first, I hadn’t noticed it. The overwhelming stench of magic filled the air. It was like staring at a mirage until everything started to come into focus. There were tents everywhere, people going about their chores, laughing, and sitting around campfires. By the time we arrived, the sun had already begun to set.
Alpha Bren would always tell us that the rebels were savages—nothing but bloodlust-driven werewolves hungry for war.
Except, the camp looked nothing like that. There were families here, elders. Everyone seemed to have a role. A few people were cooking, others were setting up fallen tents. It seemed innocent, even kind. As we walked through the camp, people stared at me. Some sized me up, while others smiled
