The first light of dawn barely kissed the horizon, yet the clearing remained thick with tension, the air heavy, almost vibrating with anticipation. Selara's silver eyes scanned the edges of the forest, every leaf, every branch trembling slightly under the weight of an unseen presence. The wolves were restless, tails low, ears perked, bodies coiled like springs ready to snap. Draven's figure was at her side, solid and unyielding, gold eyes sweeping the shadows with a predator's precision.
"They're closer," Selara murmured, her voice barely above the whispering wind. Her veins flared faintly, sending silver threads across her skin, a signal not just to the wolves but to Draven, who felt it ripple in unison with his own pulse.
Draven's hand found hers, fingers intertwining with a grip that spoke of shared determination, a tether in the storm. "Then we meet them," he said, voice low, carrying a steady certainty that anchored Selara despite the dread gnawing at her core.
