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PROLOGUE

SOPHIA

T he wind carries the scent of damp earth and pine as we descend into the valley, our paws pressing into the rain-softened ground. Mist clings to the air, swirling between towering evergreens, thick enough to veil the path ahead. I keep moving, ears alert, muscles coiled, listening for the sounds of my pack. We travel silently, wolves blending into the twilight, paws gliding over rock and moss with the ease of those who have never known the meaning of settled land.

This migration is different—I can feel it in my bones, an ache not of exhaustion but of change. We’ve roamed the wild places of the mountain ranges along the Pacific Coast for generations, following the seasons, never calling one stretch of land home. The Windrider Pack belongs to no territory, bows to no alpha beyond our own. We are the storm on the horizon, a force moving where the land calls us, unchained.

But something has been calling us here.

We move as one, a line of wolves threading through the dense undergrowth. Our leader, my father, keeps a steady pace at the front, his silver fur catching the last streaks of fading sunlight. He has always trusted the whispers of the land, reading its unspoken messages in the way the wind shifts or how the rivers carve their paths. And for the first time in my life, he has broken from our traditions.

We should have left the Cascades by now.

We don’t stay anywhere long. The Windrider Pack doesn’t linger in another’s domain unless forced to do so. And yet, something has anchored us here, something he refuses to explain.

I push forward, slipping through the trees until I reach his side. He doesn’t slow his pace, but his ears flick toward me in acknowledgment.

"We should move on," I say through the Windwoven , the unique bond that flows through our pack, woven by the winds, unbreakable and ever-flowing, our connection humming like the wind through the peaks.

"Not yet." His response is firm, final.

"Why?"

He doesn’t answer, but I see it in his eyes when he finally glances at me. The tension pulling at his shoulders, the way his gaze flickers toward the towering ridges in the distance, the way his paws slow as if waiting for something unseen to reveal itself.

My father is afraid. I don’t remember a time when I’ve ever thought of him that way. He is the kind of leader who has never known uncertainty, never let doubt take root. For him, the world has always consisted of open roads and endless sky.

But here, in the Cascades, something is different—a distant rumble rolls across the peaks. Thunder, low and guttural, vibrates through the trees. A storm is building.

We reach a break in the forest where the land opens to a sweeping cliff side, overlooking the valley below. The wind rushes past, curling through my fur, carrying with it the scent of distant wolves. Not Windriders.

Pack wolves. Settlers. Bound to one place, tied to their borders like roots that refuse to give way to the storm.

My father exhales, a slow, heavy sound, before his form dissolves in a crackling swirl of lightning-threaded mist. The air hums, thick with the energy of his shift, before the mist peels away, leaving him standing in human form—barefoot, naked, wild-haired, a warrior carved from the untamed world itself.

I follow. The shift wraps around me, swallowing my form in a haze of storm-lit color, and when it clears, I rise on two feet, the cool night air brushing my bare skin. I kneel to where I dropped my duffel bag, tossing him his clothes, while I pull on a loose sweater, leggings and warm boots before stepping beside him.

My father stares at the valley, his face unreadable.

"Tell me why we’re still here." My voice is quiet, barely above the wind.

For a long moment, he doesn’t respond. Then, he lifts his gaze to the stars beginning to emerge through the dissipating mist.

"Something is broken."

The words send a ripple of unease through me.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

“We hear the land’s call differently now,” he answers looking to the horizon. “Something beneath the surface has been broken. I don’t know if anyone can mend it.”

The weight of his words settles in my chest. The Windrider Pack has always had a connection to the land, something deeper than simple instinct. We can feel the rhythm of the wild, the heartbeat of untouched places. We sense when an imbalance is near. But this is the first time my father has admitted that something might be beyond repair.

I cross my arms, watching as the trees below sway in the rising wind. "And you think we’re meant to fix it?"

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze shifts toward the west, where the outlines of the settled packs’ territories stretch in unseen lines across the land.

"I think we’re meant to find the ones who can."

A howl rises from the distance. Not one of ours—wolves from the Nightshade Pack. I tense instinctively, my body coiled, my senses stretching beyond the reach of sight. My father lays a steady hand on my shoulder, his grip firm.

"There’s more to this place than we know." His voice is quiet, filled with something I don’t understand. "And more to the wolves who rule it."

I don’t respond. The Nightshade Pack is one of the oldest in the region. Powerful, territorial, deeply rooted in tradition. Unlike the Windriders, they belong to this land. Their history is etched in the soil and the peaks that rise above it, but that doesn’t mean they will welcome us.

Another howl echoes through the night, closer this time. My wolf stirs beneath my skin, sensing something in the air, something just beyond reach.

My father takes a slow breath. "This is where we stay, for now."

I say nothing, but my pulse thrums in my throat. Our kind don’t settle. We don’t belong to any one place. We follow the wind, and we move on.

Not this time. Not here.

Something waits in these mountains. Something we are meant to find. And for the first time, I wonder if it is not the land itself calling to us—but someone within it.

LUCAS

The air is sharp with the tang of pine and frost as I lean against the trunk of an ancient cedar, staring out over the misty valley below. The moon hangs low in the sky, heavy and full, its light casting silver across the treetops. Somewhere in the distance, a mournful howl splits the quiet. It’s not one of ours. Crimson Claw, maybe, or perhaps something worse.

A crushing weight settles in my chest. My fists clench so tightly that my nails leave a stinging imprint. Ryder and Bella are settling into their roles as a bonded pair, their connection bringing hope back to the Nightshade Pack. And yet, here I am, standing at the edges of our territory, the shadows creeping closer every damn night.

The sound of soft footsteps pulls me from my thoughts. I don’t turn, but my senses sharpen, my wolf stirring restlessly. It’s one of the younger scouts, his scent fresh and nervous.

“Lucas,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “We’ve got movement near the north ridge.”

I nod, straightening, my jaw tightening. “How many?”

“Two, maybe three,” he says. “But they’re not Crimson Claw. At least... they don’t smell like it.”

His hesitation sends a flicker of unease through me. “Then what do they smell like?”

“Strangers,” he says, his voice trembling slightly. “Like they don’t belong.”

I curse under my breath, running a hand through my hair. Strangers. That’s the last thing we need right now. With the birthrate crisis still looming and tensions between the packs in the Rainshadow Region fragile at best, new players in our territory could mean anything—none of it good.

“Where’s Ryder?” I ask, my tone sharper than I intend.

“Still at the lodge. He and Bella…”

“Got it,” I cut him off, not needing to hear the rest. Ryder deserves his moment of peace, especially after everything he and Bella went through to get here. But peace is a luxury we can’t afford right now.

“Stay here,” I tell him, already moving. “If they get closer, signal the others. I’ll check it out.”

“Lucas…” he starts, but I’m already gone, slipping into the shadows of the forest.

The north ridge is quiet when I arrive. Too quiet. There’s a distinct buzzing in my head and I lean against a tree, trying to get my bearings. Something has sent my internal senses into a tailspin. I slow my pace, my wolf on edge as I scan the area.

Then I see them.

Three figures stand at the edge of the ridge, silhouetted against the moonlight. They’re too far to make out their features, but their posture—upright and alert—and their scent tells me one thing.

They’re shifters.

“Who the hell are you?” I mutter under my breath, stepping closer but careful to stay in the cover of the trees.

One of them turns, her gaze sweeping the forest as if she can feel me watching. The buzzing in my head intensifies and is disorienting. My wolf bristles, a growl threatening to rise in my throat, but I swallow it down. I crouch lower, letting the shadows cloak me.

“We don’t have time for this,” the tallest of the figures says, his voice carrying easily in the chilly night air. The voice is deep and commanding, with an edge of irritation. “If the Nightshade wolves find us in their territory…”

“They already have,” I say, stepping out of the shadows before I can think better of it.

The figures whirl toward me, their movements sharp and precise. Not Crimson Claw, but shifters. I can feel it in the way their energy hums against mine, their presence setting my instincts on high alert, especially the female.

The woman steps forward, signaling the other two to leave her and return to wherever the hell they came from. “You must be Lucas.”

Her words hit me like a blow, my wolf snarling at the familiarity in her tone. “And you are?”

“Just passing through,” she says, though the way she holds herself suggests otherwise. “We mean you no harm.”

I take a step closer, my muscles tensed, ready for a fight. “If you meant us no harm, you wouldn’t be creeping around in our territory without an invitation. Start talking, or I’ll...”

“Relax,” she soothes, holding up her hands in mock surrender. “We’ll just move on. We were only searching for answers. We thought we might be able to help.”

“Help?” I snort. “You don’t belong here. This is Nightshade territory.”

“Exactly,” she says, a sly smile creeping across her face. “And if you want to save it, you may find you need our help more than you’d like.”

My blood runs cold at her words, my wolf snarling louder in the back of my mind. “Save it from what?”

The woman’s smile fades, and for the first time, I see a flicker of something in her eyes—fear. She turns away and calls back over her shoulder, “From what’s coming.”

The weight of her words settles over me, heavier than the silence that follows as she walks away. My heart pounds, my wolf restless as I stare after her, the sense of foreboding tightening like a noose around my neck.