Out in the training fields of Bloodfang Pack, Liora stood alone, her arms lifted to the sky, the moons' twin glow tangled in her hair. Energy crackled around her, sharp, radiant, vicious, the kind of power that made the earth itself hesitate to breathe.
She didn't speak. She didn't chant. She simply commanded.
Flames coiled from her palms and took form, wolves of fire, moving in perfect synchrony. They circled her, snapping and snarling, testing her will. The air burned hot enough to warp stone, and every time she blinked, the wolves multiplied.
Her control was nearly perfect. Nearly.
Until it wasn't.
One flame twisted wrong, a wolf's snarl deepened into something darker, something older. Its eyes went black. Its shape distorted, fur turning shadowy, mouth stretching wide as a void. It lunged.
Liora barely sidestepped the first attack.
The second one grazed her arm, and blood spilled for the first time in weeks.
She hissed, more insulted than hurt.
