Heather's POV
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The wind carried a different kind of chill that morning.
Not the crisp air of a coming storm, nor the refreshing bite of autumn dew. This chill whispered of war—of blood not yet spilled, of blades not yet drawn, of screams not yet loosed into the sky.
I stood at the highest point of Bloodmoon’s wall, watching the mountain shadows shift with the rising sun. The land ahead of us, the low hills cloaked in mist and pine, would be the battlefield if Marcus followed the paths Callum predicted.
And Callum was rarely wrong.
“Scouts returned an hour ago,” Vessa said behind me. “They’re about a day out. Maybe two.”
I didn’t respond at first. Just stared.
“How many?”
“More than we thought,” she said. “Five allied packs. And rumors of mercenaries—rogue wolves who fight
