Still moving with caution as she drew nearer, her attention was abruptly pulled behind her by the sound of shouting. She turned just in time to catch a flash of orange barreling forward, a gray form close at its heels. Oh, dear. Then the voice called out from the mist, insisting they must be slain. To take the lead stag would be the end of this haunting scene.

She hesitated for only a heartbeat before her painted pelt joined the fray, rushing with the others. Would they fight together? Was it every wolf for themselves? Or was this simply the most foolish idea they’d ever had, for the sake of a herd of mythical deer? Probably.

But logic was quickly abandoned as she bounded toward the stags. Closing in on one at the outskirts, she snapped her jaws, testing its reaction. To her surprise, it gave none. The creature stood tall, utterly unfazed, even as she began circling it. That… that was not a good sign. At least, not in the ghost’s opinion. Running her tongue across her teeth, she glanced back toward the others who had gathered, curious to see their reactions. If these haunting deer didn’t flinch at snapping jaws, what did that mean for the wolves?