By midday, we reach the ancient oak that houses Mother Willow’s healing den. The massive tree, hollowed by centuries of wind and rain, serves as both home and clinic to our pack’s eldest healer.
Mother Willow emerges before we even announce ourselves, her silver hair hanging in long braids around a face weathered by time but still fierce with intelligence.
“Bring him inside,” she commands, not wasting time with questions.
The den smells of herbs and earth magic—comforting scents that remind me of childhood visits. Mother Willow directs us to place the stretcher on a bed of moss and fresh leaves before shooing everyone but me out.
“Haven’s Heart scientist,” I explain as she cuts away his bloodied clothing. “Dire Wolf attack, but they left him alive.”
Her hands move expertly over his wounds. “Not alive by their choice. See these marks? They thought he was dead already.”
She works in silence for several minutes, applying poultices and murmuring healing chants that make my skin tingle with ancient magic. Finally, she straightens.
“He’ll live, but he won’t wake for hours.” She fixes me with a piercing stare. “Now tell me why you’re bringing Haven’s Heart people into our territory when there’s a war raging.”
I explain what the man told us about Elena Ashford and the Storm Eagles fighting among themselves. Mother Willow’s expression grows increasingly troubled.
“The ancient ruins in the southern mountains are forbidden places,” she says, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “Your grandmother spoke of them—repositories of old magic from before the barriers.”
“What kind of magic?”
She shakes her head. “Power that could bind or break the natural order. If Viktor seeks it, and if this Dr.Ashford has found something there…” She doesn’t finish the thought.
A commotion outside interrupts us. I exit the den to find my pack in defensive positions surrounding a newcomer—a small, wiry woman with short black hair and the distinctive scent of a fox-shifter.
“Swift,” I acknowledge the messenger from the Eastern Glade Clan. “What brings you to our territory?”
She bows respectfully. “Alpha Sable. Chief Bran sends a warning. Viktor’s forces are moving south in large numbers—Storm Eagles and Dire Wolves together. They’ve abandoned attacks on Haven’s Heart settlements to focus on the southern mountains.”
My stomach drops. “When?”
“They began moving at dawn. Chief Bran believes they’re converging on the ancient temple ruins.”
Where Elena and Kael discovered something significant enough to divert Viktor’s entire war effort.
I make my decision instantly. “Ash, gather our fastest runners. Alert the other neutral clans. Mother Willow, when that man wakes, learn everything he knows.”
“And you?” Ash asks, already knowing the answer.
“I’m going south. If Viktor is abandoning his vendetta against Haven’s Heart to focus on those ruins, whatever is there could threaten all territories.” I turn to Swift. “Tell Chief Bran I request his assistance. We need to form a coalition—now.”
Swift nods and darts away, shifting to fox form mid-stride.
Mother Willow catches my arm. “The southern ruins are dangerous, Sable. Your mother forbade any clan member from venturing there.”
“My mother isn’t clan leader anymore.” I meet her gaze steadily. “I am. And I won’t stand by while Viktor unleashes magic that could destroy us all.”
“Then take this.” She presses a small leather pouch into my hand. “Ancient protection. The ruins recognize old magic.”
I tuck the pouch into my belt, then shift back to wolf form. The transformation flows through me like water—fur sprouting, bones realigning, senses sharpening. In this form, I can cover the distance to the southern mountains in half the time it would take in human form.
Before departing, I throw back my head in a long, commanding howl—the call to gather allies. Others join, their voices carrying the message across the territories. The Northern Forest Clan is mobilizing.
The journey south takes me through increasingly unfamiliar territory. I avoid Haven’s Heart patrols and Storm Eagle scouts alike, using the forest canopy for cover when possible. By nightfall, I’ve reached the foothills of the southern mountains—ancient, mysterious peaks shrouded in mist even on clear days.
I pause at a ridge overlooking a wide valley, shifting back to human form to better assess the situation. In the distance, I can make out movement—too organized to be wild animals, too numerous to be hunters. Viktor’s forces, moving withmilitary precision toward the central mountain where the ruins supposedly lie.
A sound behind me—soft footfall on pine needles. I whirl, dropping into a fighting stance.
