Hushed Willows Is your blood authentic?

wanting to work on trades! down for a hunt — or fight!

Sivaak moved like a shadow through the wood of willows, her beady, crimson gaze fixed on the faint trail ahead. The spike buck had wandered too far from its herd, its sickness weighing heavily on its movements. Each broken twig, each faint hoofprint in the snow, painted a picture of its struggle.

The sharp tang of weakness lingered in the air, mingling with the cold bite of winter. Her breath curled like smoke as she crept forward, the low growl in her throat barely audible. The scent of the buck grew stronger, and with it, the pounding rhythm of her blood. Sivaak thrived on this—stalking the edge of life and death. The hunt.

The woodland was unnervingly still, save for the faint shuffle of the buck ahead. It was close, and she could almost taste the blood that would soon coat her teeth. Her lips curled slightly, the thrill of the hunt sparking a cruel gleam in her eyes, whilst her tongue flicked impatiently across her stained bridgework.

Only something shifted. The air changed—faint and unfamiliar, the musk of another wolf threading through the sharp scent of her quarry. Sivaak froze mid-step, her body stiffening as her ears swiveled sharply. Her jaws parted, a guttural snarl rising from her throat as her crimson gaze snapped around the woodland. She knew she wasn't alone. The presence of another was unmistakable, their scent too close, too bold. Her hackles bristled, her teeth bared into a savage grin.

The spike was hers. Sivaak would make damn sure of that.