The moon had long risen, casting slivers of silver light between the trees, but Jasmine had not returned.
Marro's small fingers were twisted into Kire's thick fur, clutching tightly. The young boy had refused to eat, refused to rest.
His face was streaked with dirt, tears crusted in the corners of his eyes.
Kire lay beside him, his ears twitching, his muzzle pointed toward the direction Jasmine had gone.
He hadn't moved in hours.
And then, finally, Kire gave a low, broken whimper.
Maru turned his head slowly. "No," he whispered, voice hoarse, "we should wait a little longer…"
But Kire stood.
The great white wolf paced once in a circle, nose in the air.
He sniffed again, low growls rolling from his throat.
He could smell the danger. The scent of strange wolves, iron, smoke—and something darker.
Still, Jasmine's scent had vanished long ago.
Kire whined louder this time, her body shaking.
