The pack healer's cabin was controlled chaos. Wolves lined the porch in various states of injury—cuts, bites, deep gashes that would heal quickly but still needed cleaning and bandaging. Inside, Elder Thomas worked alongside his daughter Maya, the pack's primary healer, assessing the worst cases.
Skyler and I were ushered to the front of the line despite our protests.
"You're the reason we won," Maya said firmly, guiding us to separate examination tables. "And you're both bleeding all over my clean floor. Sit."
I winced as she peeled away the makeshift bandages someone had wrapped around my ribs. The claw marks were deep, angry red lines that burned with every breath.
"Broken ribs," Maya diagnosed, her hands gentle despite her brisk tone. "Two, maybe three. The leg wound needs stitches
