Book 19: Find Your Wolf

Oakley

“I’m not going that far,” I assure my mom, Ruth, who ignores me and continues checking every button on my wool coat. I wrap a woven mustard-yellow scarf around my neck, then my head, tucking locks of unruly hair behind the fabric to keep it from spiraling out of control in the gusty weather pouring off the mountains. 

“You should go far,” Mom protests, patting my cheeks in a lovely, but annoying, manner. “This is what is done, my dear. You must find your wolf.”

Her accent is still deeply flavored with Endovan, the tribe she hails from. I’ve heard stories of how thrilled Grandma Freya was to learn my dad had found his mate at the Harvest Festival all those years ago, decades now, who came from the same tribe that she did. It’s not uncommon these days. The tribes still thrive, but the packs in the valleys–those tied inexplicably to King