Chapter 29. Ghostfire

The Ridge was gone—swallowed by the ravine. What remained of the Wolves circled loose, their bikes idling soft, their eyes hard. Not a pack anymore. Something rougher. Hungrier.

Axel stood in the center, helmet dangling at his side, hair plastered to his temples. His chest rose sharp, but he hadn’t spoken since the rivals fled. Silence clung to him like armor.

Riven stepped closer, palms bandaged with grit, her throat raw but steady. Her father’s ghost was there—but it no longer pressed down on her. It burned behind her, lighter than a shadow, steadier than a chain.

Kenzie straddled her bike like a throne she’d stolen, chain loose in her fist, blonde hair wild. Her grin was crooked, restless. She looked as though she could fall either way—into loyalty or chaos—and didn’t much care which, so long as it kept her sharp.

One Wolf spat into the dirt. Another asked, rough: “What now?”

The mutters cracked like static: Magnus is gone. We’re not a pack. Crow