The night felt heavier than usual—thicker, like the air itself was expecting something to break. Evelyn sensed it first. A pulse of unease, faint but insistent, slithered across her skin as she and River walked back toward the manor. The forest that had once offered shelter now seemed to watch them with narrowed eyes, its branches leaning inward as if listening.
River's hand never left hers. He didn't speak, but she could feel the coil of tension beneath his calm exterior, as if every instinct in him screamed that something was coming.
And something was.
They reached the edge of the clearing when the scent hit him—metallic, sharp, familiar in a way that made River stop cold.
Blood. Old. Not human.
Evelyn nearly bumped into him. "River? What is it?"
He raised his hand, signaling silence. His eyes shifted, darkening into the predatory amber of his wolf. Every muscle in his body went taut. Slowly, he turned toward the shadows between two ancient oaks.
Someone had been there.
