We march at first light.
Fifty elite wolves move in disciplined silence through frost-laced forest.
Martin commands the vanguard, Theron guards the rear, and I walk the center—close enough to direct, visible enough to inspire.
Cold bites at exposed skin; my breath clouds and vanishes.
"Two miles," Martin reports via mind-link.
"No scouts. They're either arrogant or unprepared."
"Or both," I reply. "Stay sharp."
We quicken pace as trees thin.
Blackwater's settlement emerges—a modest cluster of stone and timber buildings behind a wooden palisade. Chimney smoke curls lazily.
Morning voices carry on the wind: ordinary life, unaware.
They're not ready.
A flicker of the old me hesitates—wants to offer one final parley, spare unnecessary blood.
But the new me knows hesitation invit
