Silver Moraine three hammers

He stood there a while, long enough for a growing appetite to make itself known. Cambria tipped his snout upward as his belly clenched and grumbled, sifting for any promising scents on the slight September breeze. His eyes almost immediately cut downward again, scouring the horizon at the powerful smell of an unfamiliar wolf.

His mismatched eyes soon pinpointed his location, ranging closer across the moraine. Cambria drew in a breath and watched the figure, noting both his similarities and differences to the Blod’s own leader. Even from afar, he seemed older than Mulherin, though certainly not past his prime.

The Dragonling suddenly remembered: the river pack lived that way. Was he from there? Did he know the she-wolf who’d come calling not long ago? If things were shambolic on the rise, their issues paled in comparison to what had happened in the river lands. What were the odds this could be the usurper himself? More likely, it was someone outcast by the upheaval.

But Cambria was wary in either case and did not call attention to himself, waiting instead to see if the dark man would notice him.