The first thing they noticed was the cold. It clung to their skin, slipping into the gaps between their ribs, settling deep in their bones. The scent of the earth was rich, damp—unmistakably alive. And beneath it, something else.

Wolves.

They barely remembered how they got here. The last thing clear in their mind was running. Running so hard their chest ached, their legs burned, and their breath came in sharp, desperate gasps.

And then the dark came for them.

Now, there was firelight flickering through the trees, shadows shifting like restless spirits. Wolves surrounded them, their forms half-lit by the flames, their eyes glowing in the night. Some stood tall, others crouched low, muscles coiled, ready to strike if they so much as breathed wrong.

And in front of them all, him.

Rhydian.

He sat on his haunches, not crouched like a beast but not relaxed either—watching. His posture was deliberate, unreadable, like a predator measuring the distance between itself and prey. His wolf form was massive, black as pitch, a beast carved from the wild itself. But it was his eyes that held them captive.

Deep, predatory gold.

The kind of eyes that didn’t just see—they knew. Knew what they were. What they could become. And most importantly—whether they would survive.

His voice, when it came, was low and rough—something built from growls and the weight of leadership.

"You ran," he said.