Chapter 7. Clash of Packs

The forest had not forgotten the fire.

By dawn, three patrols had returned with the same story: scorched trees, claw marks on stone, and an empty clearing that smelled of power too old to name. The remnants of last night’s storm lingered everywhere—branches snapped, ash sifting down from blackened leaves, the air still heavy with the electrical charge of spent magic. Every wolf who passed near the southern woods returned with fur bristling and eyes wide, speaking in low, urgent voices of how the earth there still steamed as if refusing to let go.

Stormfang’s warriors whispered about it over their morning stew, stealing glances at the girl who sat alone at the edge of the hall, fingers wrapped tight around a cup she hadn’t touched. Neriah felt their stares like nicks along her skin, but she kept her gaze fixed on the door, refusing to let them see her tremble. She could still feel it in her blood—the flame. The way it had roared through her, left her skin hot and cracking