Alena

Alena crouches low in the moon-dappled pines, nostrils flaring—scent of damp earth, crushed mint, and something wrong: iron-tinted fear. Her blue eyes narrow, pupils slitted and gleaming. A twig snaps left—too soft for deer, too slow for wind. She unsheathes a claw, purple topknot swaying as she rises, muscles coiling like spring steel. “Who’s hiding… and why do you smell like lies?”