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She shut out the whispers that slithered through her mind, some warm, some dripping with malice. She had learned long ago that wolves did not trust what they could not immediately place.

Beside her, Boran moved with ease. He had grown up here, knew every path, every face. He was a villager like the rest of them-one of theirs, raised among them. He should have been her tether, her shield. And yet, the moment they crossed into the village, the others pulled him in. They clapped his back, clasped his arms, and murmured his name in voices rough with affection and relief.

Seren? She was left standing alone, exposed.

She forced herself to keep moving, following the path to the longhouse at the centre of the village. The building loomed ahead, its dark wooden beams etched with carvings of wolves, battles, and the great moon above. A warning, a story, a legacy. The wind picked up, rustling the edges of her cloak, carrying the scent of damp wood and fire smoke.

Something tugged at the hem of her sleeve. She turned.

A child, no older than six or seven, stood before her. His ears-sharp, furred-twitched slightly, and though his tail flicked behind him, the rest of him appeared human. In his small hands, he clutched a crushed bundle of wildflowers. Petals had already begun to fall, torn from careless fingers.

He held them up to her, eyes solemn.

The village seemed to hold its breath.

Did they expect her to bare her teeth, to tear into him for daring to approach? The silence stretched taut, a wire ready to snap.

Instead, she knelt.

"Thank you," she murmured - in Wolven.

The effect was immediate.

A ripple of shock passed through the watching villagers. Someone sucked in a sharp breath. Another muttered something low and incredulous. A few exchanged wary glances, unreadable. The child's ears perked up, his tail flicking once in surprise before settling.

She had not meant to surprise them, had not meant to draw more attention to herself, but the words had slipped from her tongue naturally. As if they belonged there. As if she belonged.

She smoothed the boy's wild hair-soft, untamed-and his tail gave a single, tentative wag.

"You're pretty," he said in Wolven, voice small but certain.

Something in her chest ached at the innocence of it.

A few voices murmured in response, some scoffing, others murmuring in grudging approval.

She didn't look at them. Instead, she smiled at the child, then rose, her fingers tightening around the delicate flowers.

The longhouse was only a few steps away now. Boran had reappeared at her side, but the moment felt charged, heavy, as if the very air was holding its breath.

And then, with a pull as inevitable as the moon to the tide, she turned.

A boy stood at the edge of the crowd.

He was young-twelve, no more than that - but something about him made her pulse stutter. His hair was wild, tousled, and streaked with gold from the sun. His eyes-sharp, impossibly blue-were locked onto hers, unblinking. For a moment, the world narrowed, holding its breath.

She knew.

Hagan.

Instinct whispered it to her. She had never seen him before, but she knew. A bolt of electricity hummed faintly between them, an echo of something deeper, something ancient.

But before she could move, before she could take another breath, a girl stepped out from behind him.

She was small, delicate, but there was nothing soft about her expression. Her hand slid possessively into Hagan's, fingers curling tight. Her posture screamed defiance, her dark eyes glinting with something that made Seren's stomach turn cold.

Seren looked between them.

A friend?