The packhouse had quieted after the chaos of the last battle, but Lyra could feel it—the unease that clung to the air like smoke after a fire. Wolves went about their routines, tending to wounds, repairing damaged structures, running patrols along the borders, but every step carried a wary heaviness. Laughter no longer rang as easily, and conversations cut short whenever she walked into a room.
She tried not to show it, but she felt each glance like a thorn pressed against her skin. Some wolves bowed their heads respectfully, their gratitude for her part in saving them evident; others, however, looked at her with narrowed eyes, their lips tight with suspicion. The murmurs toured faster than any scout’s feet.
Aelira, she whispered silently, clutching her chest as if it could keep the whis
