Three streaks of movement flashed across the ice.
The other three werewolves converged on his position in the span of a single heartbeat, arriving at three points around him with the coordinated speed of a pack that had learned each other's rhythms over centuries. They came to a stop in perfect formation, their heads all turning in the same direction as they arrived.
Their expressions were not the amused, casual expressions they had worn during the fight.
Their expressions were tight. Alert and faintly afraid.
They were all looking in the same direction. They spoke in near-unison, their voices low and clipped.
"Elder Fang."
The lead werewolf, Elder Fang, did not look up immediately. He was still staring at the empty blood-soaked patch of ice, still processing the disappearance of his prey.
It took him a fraction of a second longer than his pack to register what they had already registered.
