The flickering embers of the dying fire cast faint, wavering shadows across the clearing. Kael tightened his grip on his sword, the worn leather of the hilt reassuring against his palm. The glowing eyes circling him in the dark reflected the dim firelight, unblinking and predatory. A low growl rippled through the night air, deep and resonant. It wasn't a challenge—it was a warning.
The wolves weren't in any hurry. They didn't need to be.
Kael's legs ached from maintaining a low, defensive stance. His muscles burned from the tension, but he didn't dare relax. He shifted his weight slightly, trying to ease the pressure on his knees without making too much noise. The wolves would notice anything. Every growl, every rustle in the bushes, gnawed at his nerves, but he kept his breathing steady. Garrick's voice echoed in his memory: "Predators are patient. They'll wait until you're vulnerable." He swallowed hard, trying to banish the knot forming in his stomach.
