I stood my ground with both silver blades raised, blood already slick on the metal.
The smell hit me first. Iron-heavy and sharp, mixing with sweat, wet fur, and the acrid tang of fear. It clung to the air, thick enough that I could taste it at the back of my throat. My grip tightened instinctively, fingers locking around the rubber handles as I adjusted my stance, feet planted wide and steady.
The wolves knew what silver meant.
I could see it in the way they hesitated. In the subtle shifts of their weight. In how their eyes kept flicking to my hands and then away again, like looking too long might burn. They circled wider than they needed to, choosing distance over speed, angling themselves toward the wolves already locked in combat instead of risking a direct approach.
They wanted ea
