The air in the Northern Forest packhouse had grown heavy since the rogue attack. Though the fires had been put out, the wounds stitched, and the borders reinforced, unease clung to every corridor like smoke refusing to clear. The memory of the burned trees and the carved Shadow Fang symbol haunted every wolf who had seen it. The name itself carried weight—an enemy thought destroyed, now whispering of return.
Lyra felt the shift most keenly. Wherever she went, eyes followed. Conversations stilled the moment she entered a room. Wolves whispered with lowered voices, though their stares burned openly with suspicion or fear. A few warriors inclined their heads with quiet respect, but many more muttered that she had brought the rogues here, that her presence was the source of their suffering.
