Tyler’s POV
The border lets us through.
The pack doesn’t.
Every eye on the path past the sentries tracks us in small, sharp flicks. Heads turn, conversations die, shoulders tighten. It isn’t curiosity. It’s measurement.
Duke’s stride is steady under me, big body taking the weight like it’s nothing, but every step lands inside someone else’s territory. The air tastes like old rules and fresh fear. My wolf presses against my skin, restless. I keep him leashed.
This isn’t rogue ground where strength speaks first.
This is politics in fur.
Ahead, the main grounds spread out in a way that would look open to anyone who did not know better. Packed earth. Training rings. A line of low buildings that smell like kitchens and storage. Wolves moving in practiced routes that almost pass for casua
