Caelan POV;
I don’t take Elara back to the packhouse.
Not yet. After the council chamber, after the stone, the scrutiny, and the careful restraint it took not to bare my teeth at wolves who still think authority comes from sitting in a circle. I want something that belongs to me. Something untouched by expectation, untouched by politics, untouched by the weight of being watched.
So I guide the bike down a narrower road, one that curves through older trees and low stone walls, the air shifting gradually from cold stone and iron into the warmer scents of smoke, fresh bread, and earth still holding the day’s heat.
She notices immediately.
“This doesn’t look official,” Elara says lightly through the helmet.
“It isn’t,” I reply. “That’s the point.”
I pull in beside a low building set bac
