He retreated across the river, soaked and shaken. But the sounds lingered in his head—scraping, faint cries, unmistakably alive. He told himself it could have been an illusion born of water and fear. Yet his gut refused the comfort of doubt. Something lived beneath that vigil.
A little later in the day, the storm eased, but debris—fallen branches, swollen earth littered the forest. The river ran darker, swollen with silt. The wolf stood thinner than ever, its chest heaving with each breath. Adrian felt the urgency sharpen, a countdown he couldn’t measure but couldn’t ignore either.