Wolves not wolves

**Kelly Thompson's POV**

The wolves aren’t wolves.

They move too fluidly, their shadows stretching and snapping like tattered banners even under the bruise-colored sky. Their eyes aren’t eyes—just hollow sockets where starlight pools and drips, leaving smoldering trails in the ash. Eden tenses beside me, his breath shallow, a jagged rock clutched in his trembling hand. The absence of his scars makes him seem younger, softer, a blade stripped of its edge.

The lead wolf pauses, its muzzle peeling back to reveal teeth carved from obsidian. It speaks without moving its jaws, its voice a chorus of children’s laughter and bone flutes. *“Stormbearer. The Veil’s rot tastes like you.”*

The venom is gone, but the memory of its power thrums in my marrow. “What do you want?”

The wolf’s head tilts, starlight sloshing from its sockets. *“The First Wolf’s crown. You stole it when you burned the spire.”*

Eden frowns. “We didn’t take anything.”