Back in Willowfen Town, after Norman received the letter from Miranda, he stepped out of the house, the cool night air brushing against his face.
Without a second thought, he shifted into his wolf form, powerful muscles rippling beneath his thick, dark fur.
He plunged into the woods, paws thudding against the mossy earth, each stride a burst of speed that sent leaves scattering. The wind whipped past him, carrying the earthy scent of the forest, but something else soon threaded through the air—something sharp and metallic.
Norman slowed, his senses sharpening, nostrils flaring. Blood. The scent was faint but undeniable, lingering like a whisper in the darkness.
His wolf's golden eyes scanned the shadowed trees, muscles tense beneath his coat. He strained his ears, listening for the slightest rustle, but the woods seemed to hold their breath.
