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Hagan looked at them again—really looked at them. The hollowness in their cheeks, the way their thin limbs trembled from exhaustion.

"Do you think she is telling the truth? " Dain suggested through the tribelink so that no one could hear. They were still getting used to hearing each other in their minds, having shared blood only a few weeks ago at the ceremony.

Veyr snorted. "Everyone belongs somewhere. If they don't, it means they were never meant to survive."

Hagan ignored them. He was watching the girl.

She never looked up, not once, not even when she stumbled over a gnarled root. Her hands curled into fists, knuckles tight.

She was afraid.

Not just wary, but afraid in the way an animal was when it had been hunted too many times.

Something inside his chest clenched with sympathy.

Hagan saw it —the fineness to their bones, the way their cheeks hollowed too sharply, their threadbare clothes barely hanging on their frail frames.

They were starving.

They slowed down to make allowances for the females who were obviously struggling.

The centre of the tribeland was a place where tradition and necessity intertwined, home to over 20,000 shifters, each bound by the laws of the Highclaw. Unlike human cities, no vehicles were allowed beyond the outer districts, preserving the untamed spirit of the land.

The streets pulsed with life, but the absence of engines and tires grinding against pavement made the energy feel natural, primal—a world that thrived on footsteps, voices, and the ever-present rustle of shifting forms.

Children played between the buildings, darting between the legs of passing warriors and traders, their bodies flickering between forms. One boy, still mostly human, sprinted ahead with a bushy grey tail twitching behind him, while another stumbled mid-run, russet wolf ears flicking atop his head, his snout elongating before snapping back into place.

No one paid them much mind. Shifting was as natural as breathing here.

The buildings varied, reflecting both the old ways and the slow creep of modern conveniences. Quaint cottages with weathered stone and timber beams lined the quieter streets, their roofs thick with moss and their doors carved with ancestral runes. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, carrying the rich scent of burning cedar, roasting meat, and fresh bread.

But standing between them were taller structures, four- and five-story buildings, their smooth, reinforced stone and timber hinting at the slow shift toward modern living. Balconies jutted out, draped in drying pelts and herbs, while narrow windows let in the cool mountain air.

A wide bulletin board dominated the main square, its surface layered thick with overlapping parchment and ink-scrawled notices.

"Repairs for electronics – quick fixes, fair trade."

"Hunters needed for the eastern wood—serious inquiries only."

"Looking for an apprentice in elemental runes—stipend to be discussed."

Across the square, a small shop stood open, its shelves lined with runes of every kind—etched into stone, bone, and wood, some glowing faintly with stored magic. The shopkeeper, a wiry old man with a scarred cheek and a gold ring in one ear, watched over his wares with a piercing gaze, occasionally carving new runes into smooth rock.

Further along, a smithy rang with the steady clang of metal on metal, sparks flying as warriors waited for blades to be sharpened, armour to be repaired. The tang of heated iron and oil mixed with the crisp mountain air.

The streets were filled with wolves in human form, trading, bartering, and exchanging news. Some carried fresh game over their shoulders, the scent of blood and fur still strong, while others haggled over bolts of cloth, handmade leather gear, and weapons.

Despite the vibrant energy, there was an underlying order—a silent law that all obeyed, not because they feared it, but because it was the way of their kind.

Here, in the heart of the territory, the rule of the Highclaw was absolute.

Garrik led the way through the main street of the town centre which was dominated by the Tribe Longhouse, an imposing structure built from ancient timber and reinforced stone, its great roof sloping like the spine of a beast at rest. The longhouse was more than a seat of power—it was the beating heart of the pack, where laws were upheld, disputes settled, and warriors swore oaths before the Highclaw.

Its massive double doors were carved with the sigil of the pack, intricate and timeworn, polished smooth by generations of hands pressing against them in fealty or supplication. Flanking the doors, wolf-headed torches burned steadily, their flames casting long shadows that flickered like restless spirits.

Beyond the longhouse, standing in its shadow, were the personal quarters of the ruling family and high-ranking officials—the Highclaw's dwelling, the Fang’s and the Shadow's private quarters. Unlike the longhouse, these structures were built for protection as much as comfort, their windows narrow, their doors thick, exuding a sense of power and vigilance.

Garrik approached the Tribe Longhouse, his steps firm, shoulders squared. The structure loomed before him, massive and unshakable, its aged timbers darkened with time and history. It was not just a building—it was the foundation of their people, the place where justice was served, laws were upheld, and the will of the Highclaw was carried out.