Ronan
The air still tastes like ash and old fear.
We walk in near silence toward the border road. Most of the pack has already gathered, forming a loose semicircle along the treeline. Their faces are grim, eyes shadowed, shoulders tense. No one speaks. Not really. Just the occasional shuffle of boots on dirt, the rustle of fabric, the low growl of someone barely holding it together.
Francesca’s sobs carry weakly ahead of us—thin, broken, and constant. She hasn’t stopped since the pack cast their vote. Her voice is raw now, like she’s been screaming into a void that never answered. My father stomps beside the warriors escorting him, muttering curses under his breath like he still has power to wield. He doesn’t. Not anymore.
But none of that holds my attention.
I keep my eyes on Ivy.
S
