"Even enemies must clasp hands when the dark grows teeth." , Borderland Proverb
The clearing was no longer a sanctuary. It had become a cage of smoke, fire, and blood. The ruined shrine's stones glowed faintly under the licking firelight, but their protection felt fragile, little more than bones against the storm pressing in from all sides.
The wolves circled at the edge, pacing shadows with eyes like molten coals. Dozens of them, silent at first, then growling in overlapping waves, a sound so deep and resonant it made the earth itself seem to tremble. Their hunger pressed against the humans like a physical weight.
