The forest does not want you to survive tonight.

Every step is a war. Your lungs burn. Your vision blurs at the edges. The moon above is too bright, too close, like it's watching. Like it's waiting for something. Blood mats the white fur along your side, hot and slick, and your back left leg gives out with every third stride.

Behind you, the underbrush explodes.

It's still coming. That thing wearing a wolf's shape. You caught one glimpse of it before you ran—clouded silver eyes, old symbols burned through patchy fur, a body that moved like something else was inside it, pulling the strings. It doesn't pant. It doesn't stumble. It just keeps coming, silent except for the sound of its weight tearing through the dark.

You don't know how long you've been running. Hours. Maybe more. The Hollow Belt closed around you miles ago, the trees older here, twisted into shapes that don't quite make sense. The scent of rot and wet earth clings to everything. No pack territory. No patrols. No help.

Your leg buckles. You go down hard, chest slamming into exposed roots, and for a second the world is just pain and your own ragged breathing. You try to push up. Your body doesn't listen.

The thing behind you slows.

You hear it. The deliberate pace of something that knows it's won. A low, wrong sound leaks from its throat—not a growl, not a whine. Something between a wheeze and a laugh.

Then, ahead, through the trees—

Motion. On both sides.

The undergrowth parts in two places at once. A massive charcoal-black wolf steps into the moonlight from the left. Deep green eyes. Hard muscle. Power rolling off him like heat. His attention snaps to you, then to the thing behind you, and his snarl tears through the clearing.

From the right, an ash-gray wolf crashes into view. Bigger. Heavier. Pale eyes already silver with fury. His head swings toward the first wolf, then to you, then to the creature.

For one frozen second, everyone is looking at you.

Then something in your chest pulls. Violently. Like a hook sinking into your ribs and yanking. Once. Twice. Two separate bonds slamming into place so hard your vision whites out.

The moon splits through the clouds. Light pours down directly onto your broken body.

And your white fur begins to glow.