Three days after the Stone Circle, the bond woke Mira like a slap.
Not sound, not scent.
Feeling.
Pain that wasn’t hers—sharp, hot, flaring across ribs that were not cracked in her own body. A jolt of fear, tamped down hard by discipline. The particular twist of adrenaline that belonged to a wolf about to hit.
She bolted upright in bed, heart racing, breath shallow.
The healer’s house lay quiet around her. Embers glowed low in the hearth. Outside, the pre-dawn dark pressed against the shutters.
Her own body was fine.
Her bitten arm ached in its usual, dull way. Her chest rose and fell, no stab of agony when she inhaled. No sweat slicked her skin.
But he hurt.
“Fuck,” she whispered to the shadows. “Rafe.”
Her wolf had already surged to its feet, hackles up, nose lifted.
Hurt, it snarled. Ours. There.
There wasn’t here. There was to the north. Beyond the river. Beyond the line of carved stones where Ironclaw’s scent thickened.
“Calm,” she told it. Herself. Reality. “You don’t know what it is. He’s Ironclaw’s enforcer. He gets hit. A lot. It doesn’t always mean he’s dying.”
The bond throbbed again, a pulse of heat.
Not mortal this time. Annoyed. Bruised. A line of fresh pain layered over an old ache. Restraint tugged like reins in his chest. The echo in her ribs loosened a fraction.
Not dying. Fighting.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and staggered to her feet.
If she wasn’t going to sleep, she might as well work.
By the time the sky outside the small window had gone from black to deep bruised purple, she’d restocked her fever tincture shelf, checked her stores of willow bark, and re-bound her own arm.
The ache from him faded to a background thrum. Her own pulse found its normal rhythm again.
When Yara pushed through the door with a basket of bread as the sun edged over the ridge, Mira was already grinding herbs, jaw set.
“You’re up early,” Yara said warily. “Again.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” Mira muttered.
Yara’s eyes narrowed.
“Him?” she asked.
Mira’s hands stilled.
“Don’t say it like you’re asking about a boil,” she snapped. “Yes. Him. The bond jolted. He took a hit. He’s… fine. I think. Now.”
Yara set the basket down, expression softening.
“Do you… feel it every time?” she asked. “Every bruise? Every stubbed toe? Because that sounds fucking exhausting.”
“Not the little things,” Mira said. “Not unless I’m… open.” She grimaced at the word. “Big spikes, though? Apparently we get those as a package deal.”
Yara whistled low. “Hope he doesn’t get drunk much. That hangover would be murder.”
Mira snorted despite herself. “He doesn’t. Or if he does, he does it with enough self-hatred that it feels like my normal mood.”
Yara grinned. Then sobered.
“You okay?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” Mira said automatically. “He’s… not bleeding out on my floor. That’s my bar these days.”
Yara studied her.
“You could… write,” she said tentatively. “To Corin. To the council. Ask if there’s a way to… lighten it. Not cut it. Just… dampen the worst of it.”
Mira thought of the black tendrils writhing in her arm. Of the scorch at the wardstone. Of the way the thing under the earth had heard when she and Wren spoke.
“We start tinkering with the bond,” she said slowly, “we might as well carve ‘Pull Here, Old Magic’ on our chests.”
Yara grimaced. “Fair.”
Mira shook her head, setting the pestle aside.
“Bread?” she asked.
“Still warm,” Yara said. “Ede’s mate was up before dawn. Thought you’d forget to eat.” She eyed Mira’s face. “She was right.”
Mira tore off a chunk and shoved it into her mouth with unnecessary aggression.
Yara watched her chew, then leaned back in her chair, folding her arms.
“Want to hear something stupid?” she asked.
“Always,” Mira said around the bread.
“I miss him,” Yara said. “A little.”
Mira choked.
“Who?” she coughed. “Ede? He was here last night with a sprained ankle. You saw him.”
“Rafe,” Yara said bluntly. “Ironclaw idiot. Glaring at everyone. Fetching water when you wouldn’t. Being all broody in the corner. It was… entertaining.”
Mira glared at the hearth. “You’re not allowed to miss him. He’s enemy.”
“Your enemy,” Yara said. “Not mine. Yet. And even then, enemies can be… interesting.” She stretched, joints popping. “Also, the way he looks at you? Half like you’re going to bite him, half like he wants you to? That’s better than most of the romances the old women tell by the fire.”
Mira threw a bit of bread at her. It bounced off Yara’s forehead.
“Shut up,” Mira muttered.
Yara grinned unabashed.
The bond hummed, faintly amused.
Mira ground her teeth.
* * *
On the other side of the river that morning, Rafe tasted dirt.
He spat blood onto the training glade’s packed ground and dragged himself to his knees.
Around him, Ironclaw wolves ringed the clearing in a loose semi-circle.
They weren’t in their usual rough, rowdy mood. No playful shoves. No mock jeers.
They watched in a taut, silent way that made his skin prickle.
Joren stood at the edge of the cleared space, arms folded, face impassive.
“Again,” he said.
Rafe pushed to his feet.
His ribs screamed. The fresh bruise across his chest blossomed dark purple under already-fading scars. His side, where Mira had stitched him, throbbed in protest.
He ignored it.
Across from him, Oris rolled his shoulders, expression smug.
The older warrior had landed the last blow—a vicious shoulder-check that had knocked the breath from Rafe’s lungs and sent him sprawling.
“You’re slow,” Oris drawled. “Ashridge softened you.”
Rafe wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Or you got lucky,” he said.
A ripple went through the watchers.
They all knew Oris liked to needle. They also knew Rafe rarely let it land.
Something was different now.
“Again,” Joren repeated, sharper.
Rafe moved.
They collided in the center of the glade, fists and forearms a blur. Rafe ducked a wild swing, slammed his elbow into Oris’s ribs. Oris grunted, drove his knee up hard toward Rafe’s healing side.
Pain flared white.
Rafe gritted his teeth and turned with it, letting the blow glance rather than tear. He caught Oris’s arm, twisted, swept his legs.
Oris hit the ground.
Rafe went with him, using his weight, driving his forearm across Oris’s throat until the older wolf’s face went red.
“Yield,” Rafe growled.
“Fuck you,” Oris rasped.
Rafe bore down.
Oris’s hand scrabbled at his arm, then slapped the ground once.
Yield.
Rafe let go and rolled away, sucking air into burning lungs.
The watching wolves murmured.
Joren lifted a hand.
Silence snapped back.
“You’re holding back,” he said.
Rafe stiffened. “Alpha.”
“You’re slower than before,” Joren went on. “You pull blows. You turn aside instead of through. You… hesitate.”
“It’s been weeks since I fought at full strength,” Rafe said evenly. “Arrow. Organ damage. Cursed wolves. Healing under strange hands.”
“You are healed,” Joren said. “Our healer says so. You move like a full wolf. You smell like one. The limp is gone. The excuses are old.”
Rafe’s jaw clenched.
He was healed. Mostly. The ache in his side now was from today’s blows, not old wounds. Mira’s stitches had held. The curse in her arm had not linked to his flesh. Physically, he could do what he’d always done.
It was his head that got in the way.
He thought of Mira under the rogue’s teeth. Of the feel of her blood on his hands as she cut the curse out of her arm. Of the way she’d stood under the Stone Circle and defied the elders.
His wolf’s priorities had… shifted.
“Do you doubt my loyalty, Alpha?” he asked, voice carefully neutral.
Joren’s eyes were pale and unreadable.
“I question your edge,” he said. “The line between hesitation and mercy is thin. The line between mercy and weakness is thinner. I’ll not have my teeth dulled because some healer across the river smells like thyme and thunder.”
Low snickers from some of the younger wolves.
Heat crawled up the back of Rafe’s neck.
Reva lounged at the edge of the glade, leaning against a tree. Her expression was outwardly amused, but her eyes were sharp, tracking every flicker in Joren’s jaw.
“If you want to test his edge,” she drawled, “there are better ways than beating him until he leaks. That only proves his ribs can still crack.”
“Do you volunteer, niece?” Joren asked mildly.
She smiled, slow and fox-like. “Not today. I had my turn in the Circle. Let someone else dance.”
Joren let that go with a faint snort.
He stepped into the glade.
Every wolf straightened.
He was not a large man. Not compared to some of the broader-shouldered warriors around him. But power coiled under his skin like a snake.
He regarded Rafe, head tilted.
“Tell me,” he said. “Under the stones, when the elders asked where you’d stand if curses came again… why did you not say ‘with Ironclaw’ and leave it at that?”
Rafe’s pulse jumped.
“I said,” he replied, “I’d stand where I could do the most to stop it.”
“Which is apparently not always at my side,” Joren said softly.
A prickle of unease crawled up Rafe’s spine.
“Alpha—”
“Honesty, Rafe,” Joren interrupted. “You don’t lie well. Never have. It’s one of your irritating virtues. If Ashridge were under attack by one of these cursed wolves, and Ironclaw was not… where would you stand?”
The glade went very quiet.
Rafe’s stomach twisted.
Careful, he told himself. Truth. But careful.
“If I stood with you,” he said slowly, “and you moved to join, I’d be at your side. If you held back for… strategic reasons… I’d be at the edge. On the line. Keeping it from spilling further. I won’t watch pups burn because of an old grudge.”
“You watched ours,” Oris muttered under his breath.
Rafe’s wolf snarled.
“So did you,” he shot back. “Or do you forget the winters we starved because the council wouldn’t let us cross certain lines?”
Joren lifted a hand. “Enough. We have all watched pups suffer. That is why we’re here. Why the council called.”
He took a step closer to Rafe.
“If the curse hits us first,” he said, voice softer than a knife, “will you stand between it and my pups? Or will your mind drift to Ashridge’s healer and wonder how badly she is bleeding?”
Rafe swallowed.
The bond thrummed, as if aware it was being discussed.
“I can… do both,” he said quietly. “I’ve always thought beyond one line. That’s why you valued me.”
“Valued,” Joren repeated, gaze narrowing. “Past tense.”
Rafe’s throat went dry.
Something old and cold stirred there—fear from when he’d been a scrawny pup standing in front of this man for the first time, asked to bare his teeth.
Joren’s mouth curved.
“Don’t look so tense,” he said lightly. “I haven’t decided you’re useless. Yet.”
Rafe forced himself not to exhale in relief. “Glad to hear it, Alpha.”
“But,” Joren went on, “you have changed. I’d be a fool not to see it. Whatever scent Ashridge’s healer left on you, it’s in your bones now.” His lip curled faintly. “The council can call it fate. I call it… complication.”
Reva snorted softly.
“Complications are interesting,” she murmured.
Joren ignored her.
“I can’t cut the bond,” he said. “Not without tearing pieces off the board I might need later. But I can… shape how you use it.” His gaze sharpened. “You will not run to Ashridge every time your ribs twinge with her pain. You will not bring me every whiff of thyme on the wind and call it strategy. You will stand where I put you. Until it becomes clear that where I put you is where you would stand anyway. Understood?”
Rafe’s jaw ached with the force he used to keep his response even.
“Yes, Alpha,” he said.
“Good,” Joren said. “Because I’m sending you back to the border.”
Rafe blinked. “When?”
“Tomorrow,” Joren said. “With a small patrol. You’ll check the northern wards. Sniff for scorch. See if curses carve into our stones as eagerly as they do Ashridge’s.”
Rafe’s heart lurched. “Corin—”
“Knows,” Joren said. “He sent word. He wants… eyes. Ours. Ashridge’s. Yours. Hers.” His mouth twisted. “The elders are quite excited about their new… instruments.”
Rafe’s stomach flipped.
“Back to the river, then,” he said.
“Yes,” Joren said. “Consider it… an opportunity. To see with those eyes Reva is so fond of. To decide, truly, where you stand when old things push.”
He stepped back.
“Rest,” he ordered. “Eat. Tomorrow, you go where the cracks are.”
Rafe inclined his head, then moved out of the glade on legs that felt oddly shaky.
Reva fell into step beside him.
“Well,” she said. “Look at that. You’re getting your wish.”
“What wish,” he muttered.
“Back to the line,” she said. “Back to Ashridge. Back to her.”
He swallowed.
“I didn’t wish for this,” he said.
She arched a brow. “No? Your wolf did.”
He glared at the path. “That’s not the same.”
“Close enough,” she said.
He exhaled sharply.
“Reva,” he said quietly. “If I… choose… wrong… will you…?”
“Try to mitigate the damage?” she supplied. “Yes. As much as I can. As long as it doesn’t get us all exiled or dead.”
He huffed a humorless laugh. “Reasonable.”
“Don’t act so surprised,” she said. “Foxes are excellent at balancing on crumbling stones.”
He thought of Mira, standing on the metaphorical river in his dream, water rushing under her bare feet.
“Let’s hope wolves are too,” he murmured.
* * *
Mira felt him coming before the ward-howl reached her ears.
The tug in her chest started as a faint itch. A prickle at the edge of awareness. By mid-morning, it had become a steady pull, like a wind in her ribs.
She tried to ignore it.
There were poultices to change, a pup with a sprained ankle to soothe, Harn’s “stomach wind” to medicate (with exactly the amount of fennel that would both cure and humiliate, thank you).
But by the time the first howl drifted from the northern ridge—a specific, sharp note that meant border eyes—her wolf was pacing so hard it might as well have been clawing up her throat.
“Mira?”
Yara’s head popped around the curtain separating the main room from Mira’s sleeping nook.
“You feel it too, right?” she asked. “Or is your twitchiness just… you?”
Mira tossed the last of Harn’s herbs into a jar with more force than necessary.
“He’s coming,” she muttered. “Back to the river.”
Yara blinked. “Already?”
“The council wants eyes on the scorch,” Mira said. “Old magic doesn’t nap. Neither do elders with new toys.”
Yara’s mouth twisted. “And we’re the toys.”
“Exactly,” Mira said.
She wiped her hands on her apron and yanked it off, tossing it onto a peg.
“You’re going up there,” Yara said. Not quite a question.
“Yes,” Mira said. “Wren will be at the line. I’m not letting her face Joren and whatever new curse carved itself into our rocks without my expertise and my charming personality.”
Yara snorted. “She can handle Joren. It’s you I’m worried about.”
Mira gave her a flat look. “I’m not going to leap across the river and throw myself into his arms.”
Yara’s brows climbed. “You thought about that very fast.”
“Shut up,” Mira muttered, already moving toward the door. “Cover for me if any pups come in screaming. Tell them I’m out scowling at stones.”
“Be careful,” Yara called after her. “And if he says something stupid, punch his ribs, not his stitches!”
Mira flipped a hand in acknowledgment and stepped out into the bright, biting air.
The path to the northern ridge wasn’t long.
Her feet knew every root and stone. Her lungs burned more than usual—curse extraction and council stress had taken their toll—but she kept her pace steady.
The bond tugged, stronger now.
Not pain. Not fear.
Anticipation.
He was feeling it too.
“Idiot,” she muttered to herself. “Both of you.”
Wren’s scent hit her just before the crest of the ridge.
Pine. Sweat. The faint sharpness of an alpha’s tension.
“Mira,” Wren said without looking back as Mira joined her. “Good. I was about to send Yara to drag you by the ear.”
“Thought I’d save her the trouble,” Mira said.
They stood at the tree line, looking down at the river.
It glinted between rocks, narrower here. The stones that marked the old, official border sat a few paces back from the bank, carved runes faint under moss.
On the far side, Ironclaw wolves approached.
Not many.
Rafe at the center. Reva to his right. Two other warriors Mira didn’t know well flanking them.
Rafe’s stride was careful enough that she could tell the glade bruises still hurt. But he moved with purpose.
“It’s like watching someone walk a tightrope,” Wren murmured. “One misstep and we’re all in the ravine.”
Mira’s mouth twisted. “Who, him? Or me?”
“Both,” Wren said. “Obviously.”
They stepped down onto the stones.
Rafe halted on the opposite bank, just shy of the water.
For a heartbeat—longer—they simply stared at each other.
He looked… different.
Not drastically.
His hair was still the same dark, stubborn mess. His nose was still crooked. The scar by his brow still cut a pale line.
But there was a new set to his shoulders. A tension around his eyes that hadn’t been there when he’d been bleeding in her cabin.
He’d gone back to being Ironclaw’s teeth.
And yet.
The way his gaze softened, fractionally, when it landed on her?
That was not Joren’s.
“Mira,” he said.
Her throat went dry at the sound of her name in his mouth.
“Rafe,” she replied, keeping her voice even.
Reva’s eyes flicked between them, amused.
“Alpha Wren,” Reva called. “We come under council request. To inspect scorch. To sniff rocks. To glare at each other meaningfully.”
Wren snorted despite herself. “You have a gift for making everything sound ridiculous, Reva.”
“It’s a talent,” Reva said.
Rafe’s gaze slid to the wardstones behind Wren.
“Corin said your stones were… marked,” he called. “Like the rogue’s scent. We’ve found similar on ours.”
Mira stiffened. “Where?”
“North ridge,” he said. “Beyond our dens. Carved around an old hunting marker. Eye in the center.”
Mira cursed under her breath. “Same,” she said. “On our wardstone.”
Reva’s brows rose. “Well. Isn’t that cozy.”
“Not the word I’d use,” Wren muttered.
Rafe stepped onto a shallow rock that jutted into the river’s midline.
He didn’t cross.
Mira did the same from her side.
They stood now a few paces apart. In neutral water. Between.
“Show me,” he said.
She jerked her chin over her shoulder. “Come. Try not to track your alpha’s stink too far over my stones.”
He huffed a quiet laugh.
Wren arched a brow as he approached.
“You step on our bank,” she said, “you obey our rules. No biting, no peeing on trees, and no calling elders ‘dusty bastards’ to their faces. In our hearing.”
“Noted,” Rafe said.
“You forgot ‘no kissing the healer without explicit consent,’” Reva murmured.
Mira choked.
Rafe shot Reva a look sharp enough to cut.
“Reva,” he said warningly.
“What?” she asked innocently. “Bound wolves. Liminal space. It’s practically tradition.”
Wren snorted. “In which stories?”
“Mine,” Reva said.
Mira rolled her eyes so hard it hurt.
“Come on,” she snapped at Rafe. “Before your fox gets us all in trouble.”
He followed her up the narrow path to the wardstones.
As they neared the scorched one, the air grew… thicker.
The hairs on Rafe’s arms rose.
He smelled it before he saw it.
Not the full, cloying rot of the rogue.
A thinner, sharper version. Like smoke from a far fire.
The earth around the base of the stone was blackened in a spiral. The rock itself pitted, the eye symbol faintly visible under the smear of herb-paste Mira had laid down.
Rafe crouched.
“Same,” he murmured. “Almost exactly.”
He reached out, hand hovering over the marks.
Heat licked at his palm.
Not enough to burn. Enough to warn.
“Don’t touch,” Mira snapped automatically.
He glanced up at her.
“Jealous?” he asked.
“Of what?” she demanded.
“The stone,” he said. “You’re awfully possessive of it.”
She glared. “That scorch is cursed. I’d rather you didn’t stick your fingers in it and then need me to amputate.”
“Fair,” he said. “You’d probably enjoy it too much.”
“Only a little,” she muttered.
He smiled faintly, then sobered, gaze returning to the spiral.
Reva approached more slowly, nose wrinkling.
“Charming,” she said. “Our version had less… herb paste.”
“Yours had less Mira,” Rafe said. “That was the main problem.”
Mira made a strangled noise.
“Are you… flirting,” she demanded, “with my wards?”
“Maybe,” he said. “They’re very… stubborn.”
Wren pinched the bridge of her nose. “Corin wants us to cooperate,” she muttered. “He did not mention enduring this.”
Rafe straightened, expression shifting from teasing to serious.
“When we found ours,” he said, “the scorch was fresh. Smoke still clinging. Reva’s nose nearly fell off.”
Reva sniffed. “My nose is fine. The smell was not.”
“It whispered,” Rafe went on. “Not loud. Not like the curse in your arm. Faint. Like something tasting the edge.”
“Same here,” Mira said. “We warded. Sang. Yelled at it. It… hissed. Then retreated. A little.”
He nodded slowly.
“They’re not random,” he said. “These… eyes. They’re marking.”
“Scouting,” Wren said. “Testing. Looking for weak points.”
Reva frowned. “Why here, then? Why Ashridge and Ironclaw’s line? Why not the southern packs? The mountains?”
Mira and Rafe exchanged a look.
“Because this is where the bond is,” Mira said quietly. “Where the… crack between us is widest.”
“It likes tension,” Rafe agreed. “Old hatred. New… threads.”
Reva’s expression twisted. “So we’re… bait.”
“Yes,” Mira said. “Congratulations. You’re interesting.”
Wren exhaled. “Corin will want details. We’ll write. He’ll respond with some long-winded letter about old gods and older grudges.”
Reva sneezed suddenly, wrinkling her nose. “Ugh. That paste stinks.”
Mira smirked. “Good. If you can smell it, so can whatever’s under there. Maybe it’ll decide we taste bad.”
Rafe rubbed a thumb over his lower lip, thoughtful.
“Do you… feel it?” he asked Mira quietly. “In the bond. When it pushes?”
She hesitated.
“Yes,” she admitted. “Faint. Like… fingers against glass. When we were at the Circle, it was louder. Here, it’s… thinner. But still… there.”
He nodded.
“Me too,” he said. “Sometimes. When I sleep.”
Their eyes met.
For a moment, the scorched stone, the watching alphas, the old magic pressed at their edges.
The bond thrummed.
“I hate this,” Mira whispered. “Not you. This. Being… used.”
His throat worked. “Me too.”
“Then don’t let them,” she said fiercely. “Not Joren. Not Corin. Not whatever’s under this fucking rock. Don’t let any of them decide what we are.”
He exhaled, shaky.
“I’ll try,” he said.
“That’s not—” she began hotly.
“All we can,” he finished. “I know. I wish I could promise more. I can’t. Not honestly.”
Her anger deflated.
“Honesty,” she muttered. “Stupid oath.”
He huffed a laugh.
Reva cleared her throat loudly.
“If you two are done making eyes at each other over cursed spirals,” she said, “we should probably decide whether we’re marking this as ‘contained’ or ‘actively trying to chew through our wards’ in our report to the council.”
“Actively chewing,” Mira said immediately.
“Contained, for now,” Wren said at the same time.
Rafe smirked.
“Compromise?” he suggested. “Chewing loudly but getting splinters.”
Mira snorted. “Accurate.”
Wren gave him a look that was half-annoyed, half-approving.
“Write it that way,” she said dryly. “See if Corin chokes on the phrasing.”
Reva grinned. “Gladly.”
They stayed at the stones longer than they strictly needed to.
Checking for new scorch. Reinforcing paste. Sharing notes on the rogue’s movements and the wards around their dens.
Mira and Rafe fell into a rhythm that made something in both of them ache.
He’d say, “Our elders sing this one,” and hum a low, old tune. She’d frown, then hum one of her own, their melodies weaving awkwardly, then more smoothly.
He’d point out a pattern in the scorch she hadn’t noticed. She’d correct his sloppy herb placement with a mutter about “Ironclaw and their sad excuse for healers.”
They bickered. They sniped. They laughed, once, at exactly the same moment, at exactly the same stupid joke Yara made about cursed moss.
It felt… frighteningly natural.
Too easy.
As the sun edged toward afternoon, Wren shifted her weight.
“We should let them go,” she said quietly to Mira. “Joren will be twitchy if his wolves linger on our side. And I have elders to placate.”
Mira’s chest tightened.
“Fine,” she said shortly.
Reva clapped Rafe on the shoulder. “Come on, lover boy,” she drawled. “Let’s leave Ashridge’s healer to her herbs before she poisons us.”
Mira glared. “Don’t call him that.”
Reva’s eyes glittered. “I wasn’t. I was calling you that.”
Mira choked. “I will—”
“Later,” Rafe cut in, amused. “You can kill her later. She’ll resurrect herself out of spite.”
Reva beamed. “See? He knows me.”
Wren shook her head. “Foxes,” she muttered.
Rafe turned back to Mira.
He hesitated.
Too aware of Wren behind her, of Reva behind him, of Kai’s watchful gaze, of the wardstone throbbing faintly under the paste.
Too aware of the bond humming in his chest.
“Take care,” he said.
She snorted. “You too. Try not to let your alpha hit you in the same place twice. Bruises heal faster when you’re not stacking them.”
He smiled.
“Don’t…” He hesitated. “Don’t cut it. If they offer again.”
She stared at him.
“I already said I wouldn’t,” she said. “Don’t you dare let them make you regret that.”
He swallowed.
“Same,” he said. “Don’t let me make you regret it.”
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
“Idiot,” she said softly. “Go.”
He inclined his head.
Then, before he could lose his nerve, he stepped forward and brushed his fingers, very lightly, against her wrist.
Bare skin on bare skin.
A spark leapt.
Not the searing blaze of the first touch.
A warm crackle. A reminder.
He pulled back immediately.
Her eyes flashed.
Her wolf surged.
Wren cleared her throat meaningfully.
“Border,” she said.
“Right,” Rafe muttered.
He turned and headed back down toward the river.
Behind him, he heard Mira exhale.
The bond tugged, stretching.
He did not look back.
Reva fell in beside him, smirking.
“You’re doomed,” she said.
“I know,” he replied.
They crossed the rocks, stepping back onto Ironclaw soil.
The wardstone watched.
The scorch spiral at its base pulsed, once, like a heartbeat.
Under the earth, something old licked its lips.
The game, it thought, was getting very interesting indeed.
And it had every intention of playing it until the last bone fell.