They had been waiting for thirty minutes.
And for thirty minutes, not one of them moved.
Rhyxen's legs ached from crouching in place, but he didn't dare shift. As much as he despised the idea of waiting—sitting still while the world ticked by—he understood the logic. As a strategist, he had to. Patience could win battles.
'But this... isn't just strategy anymore.'
Because true to Chief Tyrnhael's warning, Luna hadn't moved to attack, nor had she shifted back.
She simply stayed there, crouched low beside Ravhiel, guarding him with a silent snarl carved permanently into her face. As if at any moment, they'd all lunge at him like predators. As if she knew.
But slowly—minute by minute, breath by breath—something shifted.
The growling stopped. The heaving slowed. The blinding rage in her glowing, ancient eyes dimmed into something more primal. Less… volatile.
Eventually, the beast—Luna's wolf, as Rhyxen had now begun to call it—simply laid down.
Right beside Ravhiel.
