The camp was quieter than it should have been, the kind of silence that came from people watching something closely instead of ignoring it.
The rogue stood at the edge of the clearing, posture deceptively relaxed for someone surrounded by wolves who could tear him apart in seconds. Firelight caught the dirt smudged along his jaw, the frayed edge of his torn shirt. He didn’t look desperate, and that, more than anything, was what put Amara on edge.
Rogues who came looking for a pack usually looked hollow, worn down by a life spent running. This one looked like he was deciding whether the pack was worth his time, not the other way around.
Damian stood in front of him, arms crossed, unreadable. Rhea hovered close by, her fingers twitching like she was itching for an excuse.
The rogue barel
