The line did not merely bend—it groaned beneath the weight now, each step taken by the wolves no longer advancing, but resisting, holding ground that threatened to slip away beneath blood and exhaustion.
Rhea felt the shift before anyone spoke it, a tightening in her chest, a quiet, unmistakable fracture spreading through the formation like a crack in glass under pressure.
Her breath came sharper, heavier, though her stance did not falter, her feet planting harder against the stone as if she could root herself into the very earth and refuse to be moved.
A low growl slipped from her throat, not wild, not uncontrolled, but steady, grounded, something that anchored those nearest her even as fear clawed at their instincts.
"…not one more step," she muttered, her voice low, rough, more promise than warning.
Her fingers curled, then steadied, her gaze lifting.
The next wave surged forward.
Faster.
Closer.
