The forest was thick with shadows, the air damp, the scent of pine and soil sharp with every breath. General Alaric Veynar marched at the head of his men, boots silent despite the uneven ground. The mission behind enemy lines had been a success—ruthless, bloody, but precise. Now came the harder part: returning alive. His instincts, honed from years of war, kept him alert. Every rustle, every shift in the treeline was registered. Something was following them.

He did not tell the men. Fear was a contagion he never allowed to spread. Instead, his steel-gray gaze swept the dark undergrowth at intervals, noting patterns—the faint glint of eyes, the subtle silence of birds. Whatever trailed them was patient, intelligent.

By nightfall, they stopped to make camp. Fires were forbidden, so they huddled beneath cloaks, sharpening blades and eating in silence. Alaric moved away under the pretext of gathering water. In truth, he wanted to confront the presence stalking them. He trusted no one else for it.

The river ran like a silver vein through the trees, its surface broken only by drifting leaves. Kneeling, Alaric dipped his canteen into the current. That was when the low growl came, vibrating through the ground as much as the air. Slowly, he raised his head.

Across the riverbank, half in shadow, stood wolves. Their eyes glowed pale in the darkness, fangs bared, bodies taut with threat. But what froze him was not the beasts—it was the figure among them.

A young woman stood at their center. Barefoot, hair wild and tangled, falling around her face in waves of chestnut brown. Her dress was strange—ornate once, now worn by forest and time, its light brown fabric torn but still bearing intricate embroidery. She rested one slender hand on the thick ruff of the largest wolf at her side, its massive frame nearly reaching her shoulder.

The wolves bristled, their hackles rising as they caught his scent. Their growls deepened, a chorus of primal warning. Alaric rose slowly, drawing himself to his full height. His gloved hand hovered near the holster at his belt, though he did not draw. To fire would be to break the balance.

The woman’s gaze met his. Her eyes—large, clear, and hauntingly calm—studied him not with fear, but with quiet curiosity. She tilted her head slightly, like a child observing something unfamiliar. Then, to his surprise, she laid her hand firmly on the wolf’s muzzle. The beast froze, growl cut short. One by one, the other wolves lowered their voices, though their eyes never left him.

Alaric’s heart was steady, but his thoughts sharpened. Who was she? An abandoned child raised in the wild? A deserter’s daughter left behind?

He took one measured step forward. The wolves tensed, ready to spring, but the woman raised her hand, palm out, and they stilled again. She looked at him intently, as though she had never seen a man like him before—his uniform, his polished medals, his sharp and severe face.

“Who are you?” His voice was low, commanding, edged with steel. But she did not answer. She only blinked, expression unreadable, lips parted slightly as though she did not understand. Or perhaps she could not speak at all.

The river flowed between them, carrying silence as heavy as the air. Alaric realized with a strange jolt that she belonged here—in the hush of leaves and the company of wolves. She was not a trespasser. He was.

For a moment, her curiosity softened, almost fragile. She tilted her head again, her gaze brushing over his face, his medals, his cap. The wolf pressed against her side, protective, but she did not move away.

He could have ordered her captured. He could have killed her and scattered the beasts. That would have been the professional choice—the efficient one. But something in the way she looked at him, with unspoken questions in her eyes, stayed his hand.