A few days had passed since the forest escape.
The wind in the mountains was colder than Celine expected, biting through her borrowed cloak and making her fingers ache even as she sat close to the fire. Every breath she took came out in pale puffs of mist and her muscles still carried the ache of the trial she'd endured. She curled her arms tighter around her knees, letting her thoughts wander as the flames crackled softly in front of her. The rogue werewolf camp was hidden deep in the heart of the forested mountains, tucked behind thick layers of rock, shadow, and snarling distrust.
This wasn't the royal palace, it wasn't even close. There were no soft mattresses here. No silk pillows or honeyed tea. Just branches snapping under boots, rough grunts of conversation and the heavy smell of pine, sweat and fur.
