"Form ranks! Watch the tree line!"
The east woods stretched before them, gnarled trunks rising from wet earth, wrapped in tendrils of morning fog that seemed to pulse unnaturally.
Beckett rushed to his side, eyes wide. "They're close, Alpha. Within a hundred yards."
"How many?"
"At least thirty. Maybe more."
Rhett's jaw tightened. "Mercenaries?"
Beckett shook his head. "Not mercenaries. Not pack, either. I don't know what they are."
The mist thickened, moving like fingers sliding between the trunks.
Rhett's sharp eyes scanned the haze. "They're not coming to negotiate."
Beckett's voice dropped. "Gabriel is with them."
Rhett barely contained his growl. Gabriel—the Elder's snake. It was always him.
The fog parted slightly as shapes emerged—tall figures in dark, cloaked armor. Their faces were masked, wolf crests etched into black metal. Silent. Predatory.
But it was what moved behind them that made the hair on Rhett's arms stand on end.
