The authoritative bark cut through the noise of the water and echoed through the trees. Urna's ears swiveled toward the source an instant before her head followed. Her nerves twanged with anticipation.
And then there it was, loud and haunting: the telltale alarm howl of a sentry wolf. She threw back her head for an answering whoop, and gathered her paws into a low lope that gradually escalated into a full-out gallop. Urna burst through the undergrowth and onto the rocky riverbank. A few dozen meters downhill, she recognized the earth-brown coat of Gabriel, in a stand-off with—
Her hackles rose. The tendrils on her back curled tight with banked tension. She didn't recognize the green dog, but she very much recognized the red wolf. Enya. One of the leaders of Duskorna. What was she doing here, in Verdantis?
Urna picked her way downslope, a rumble in her throat underlining Gabriel's demand. "Don't run," she added—though what self-respecting Tsillan would flee from the consequences of their actions?
A smart one.