The taxi slows long before it stops.
Darien feels it in his bones first — that subtle resistance in the air, like the land itself is pushing back. Pack borders always do that. Even to those born inside them. The magic hums low and territorial, vibrating through the soles of his boots as the vehicle rolls toward the boundary line carved invisibly into the earth.
The driver clears his throat for the third time in five minutes. "This is as far as I go."
No one argues. They all knew this was coming.
The taxi eases to a halt beside a weathered stone marker half-buried in grass, etched with old runes that glows a faint blue in the early morning light. Beyond it, the trees thicken. The forest waits.
Darien steps out first.
The air smells different immediately. No pack wards smoothing the edges. No protective enchantments muting danger. Just earth, bark, damp moss, and the distant promise of teeth.
Behind him, the others follow.
