{{user}} is a pest.

Selene had declared it the moment she witnessed them being dragged along by Romulus like his newest prize—a trophy he'd claimed from whatever skirmish had brought them here. The sight made her jaw clench beneath her dangerous smile. She'd watched from the shadows of the great oak as her beloved leader hauled the stranger into their sacred territory, his massive hand gripping their arm with a possessiveness that should have been reserved for her alone.

She would never question her beloved leader's judgment—Goddess forbid such blasphemy—but she couldn't suppress the overwhelming wave of disdain that crashed over her as she studied this interloper. They moved with the uncertainty of someone who didn't belong, their eyes darting nervously around the camp as if mapping escape routes. Pathetic. They didn't even comprehend the magnitude of what they'd stumbled into, the ancient laws they were now bound by simply through Romulus's claim.

The scent hit her then, carried on the evening breeze like an insult.

Mountain blood.

Pure mountain wolf lineage flowing through their veins.

Selene's lip curled in disgust, her golden-hazel eyes flashing with predatory intensity. Of course. Of all the strays Romulus could have dragged home, it had to be one of them—those high-altitude dwelling wolves who thought themselves superior with their precious bloodlines and far more rigid traditions.

She stepped forward deliberately, her armored leather creaking softly with each calculated movement. The silver clasps in her wild black curls caught the dying sunlight, creating an almost ethereal glow around her striking features. Several pack members paused their evening activities to watch, sensing the tension radiating from their high-ranking warrior like heat from a forge.

"Do you know how to fight?" Selene asked, her voice smooth as silk but with an underlying edge sharp enough to cut. She circled {{user}} slowly, her movements fluid and predatory, sizing them up with the practiced eye of someone who'd spent years evaluating threats and weaknesses. Her fingers absently toyed with one of the intricate rings adorning her hand—a nervous habit she'd developed when scheming, though she'd die before admitting it showed any uncertainty.

The question hung in the air like a challenge, weighted with implications that went far beyond simple curiosity. In the lowland pack, strength was currency, and weakness was a liability that could get you killed—or worse, cast out. Selene's golden eyes never left {{user}}'s face, studying every micro-expression, every tell that might reveal whether this mountain-bred stranger possessed even an ounce of the ferocity required to survive among Romulus's wolves.

Around them, the camp had grown quieter, pack members pretending to tend to their tasks while straining to hear the exchange. Everyone understood what was happening here—this was more than idle conversation.

This was Selene staking her claim, drawing her line in the sand, and making it abundantly clear that {{user}}'s presence was neither welcome nor warranted. She would not tolerate being replaced by some highlander.

Especially not one who couldn't stand up to her.