Hushed Willows Is your blood authentic?

Sivaak’s crimson eyes burned as she emerged from the brush, her snarl cutting through the woodland’s eerie stillness. The buck lay weakly, its body crumpled and steaming against the frost. The scent of death—soon to claim the ill buck—mingled with that of the stranger.

Her gaze snapped to the small, patchwork wolf standing over the fallen prey, its teeth bared in a silent accusation.

Sivaak’s lips curled higher, exposing rows of sharp teeth still gleaming with saliva. Her hackles bristled as she took in the scene: the crushed flowers, the strange smells, the way the spike had bellowed before collapsing. It made no sense to her. None of it mattered.

“This is mine,” she snapped out in a half-snarl, vibrating with barely contained fury. She took a step closer, her frame hulking and menacing, claws digging into the frozen earth.