The packhouse felt like it was holding its breath. The morning after the council meeting, every corner seemed alive with whispers—some hushed, some venomous, some laced with the raw edge of fear. Lyra could feel it pressing against her like an invisible fog as she stepped into the hall.
Wolves lingered in clusters, heads bent together, their voices dropping when she passed. A pair of warriors who had fought beside her during the rogue attack offered her nods of respect, though their gazes carried uncertainty. A group of women turned their backs, pointedly ignoring her. Children, less bound by politics, peeked at her with wide eyes, whispering in giggles until their mothers tugged them away.
Lyra clutched her hands together, forcing herself to keep moving. Her wolf, Aelira, stirred with a
