The poisoner was named almost as an afterthought.
It was the alpha's own second, of course, jealous of a healer who saw too much, and once Wynn was free to prove what she'd always known, it took less than a day. But that was the small war, and the small war had stopped being the point somewhere on the bank of a trough, and I found I could barely bring myself to care about one more jealous schemer now that I'd seen the shape of the large war and the way it would be won.
Not at the river. In the halls. One pack at a time deciding to stop throwing its own away.
We rode home to the rogue camp in the full green of spring, and behind us Frostmere was already, slowly, painfully, becoming a different kind of pack, because a pack that has seen the thing its cruelty feeds does not easily go back
