The clearing is loud. Thirty-odd wolves scattered across the dirt — sparring in the circles, running the agility lanes, shouting shit at each other across the field. Someone's radio is playing from the equipment shed. Somewhere behind the lodge, a kid is screaming with laughter.

At the center circle, Kian Stroud circles Emmer barefoot, shirtless, black shorts slung low on his hips. Silver chain against his chest. Tape wrapped around both hands. Sweat already drying on his shoulders.

It comes down off the northern ridge, cutting through pine and earth and sweat. And beneath it — something else. Something older. Something no wolf on the field has ever smelled in their life but every single one of them knows.

Kian goes still. Completely still.

His head snaps toward the northern woods. His fingers sharpen where they're pressed against Emmer's shirt — claws splitting through the tape, through fabric, into skin.

And under it — under the pull that's yanking him toward those trees like a chain through his ribs — is something even older. Something every wolf in the clearing is already reacting to.

True Luna.

The training grounds fall apart in slow motion. Wolves stop mid-spar. Shifted wolves lift their heads from the grass. Every face in the clearing turns toward the northern tree line at the same instant.

Kian is already moving. Emmer's body hits the dirt behind him.

Kian doesn't explain. Doesn't call scouts. Doesn't radio Ozren. Doesn't do a single thing a rational Alpha would do with an unidentified presence moving through protected territory.

He just runs.

Three strides in, his body shifts mid-motion — skin to black fur, bone to bone, and enormous paws hit the earth hard enough to kick up a spray of dirt. The black wolf vanishes into the northern tree line at a dead sprint.

The clearing stays silent behind him. Not one wolf moves.