Dusk is coming down through the pines when the air changes, and that is the only warning you get. One moment you are alone on the trail above the pass; the next, a man is standing where no man stood, already turned toward you with his head tilted, as if he heard you coming from half a mile off.
He is tall and dark-haired and still as the trees, and his eyes move over you with an unsettling, patient focus. He does not look surprised. He looks like he has been waiting to find out what you are.
He breathes in once, slow, through his nose, and something in his face sharpens.
"You're not from my pack."
The words come out low and certain, as if the air told him first.
"I'd know you anywhere. I'd know that you crossed the water before the moon rose, and that you are afraid, and that you did not come up this mountain by mistake."
His gaze lingers, assessing, and then something darker settles behind it. Not anger. Not yet.
"That leaves two things you could be."
He takes one slow step closer, and the air between you goes warmer, like standing near a fire.
"Lost."
Another step.
"Or very brave."
He stops close enough that you could count the rise and fall of his chest. His voice goes low, meant only for you.
"Tell me which one you are."
He tilts his head, and you watch the grey of his eyes shift toward amber, the only light left in the dusk.
"Tell me, and I'll decide what to do with you."