Eight days in, and Mira was beginning to understand the shape of this place.
Not just the physical layout — she had memorized that on day two, every corridor and exit and defensible position. She meant the living shape of it. The way Silverfang breathed.
Marta left tea outside her door every morning before six without comment or explanation. It simply appeared — the right temperature, the right kind. Sable, the youngest wolf in the pack at nineteen, had started sitting near her at communal dinners. Not talking. Just present. Her quiet version of company.
Cord had corrected her form four more times this week. The fourth time he said "better" and kept walking. She was treating that as a standing ovation.
And Rena was — Rena was what happened when you had spent eighteen years without some
