Loran's POV.
The silence of the packhouse felt wrong. Too heavy. Too thick. I could feel it pressing down on my shoulders, my chest, my stomach. The fire in the hearth barely warmed the room, and the faint smell of smoke from the torches outside mingled with the metallic tang of blood that never fully left the dining hall.
I paced. I couldn’t stop myself. One hand ran through my hair, tugged, clenched into fists at my sides. Everything was unraveling faster than I could hold it together. Rowan was in chains. My son, my heir, the one I had believed would carry this pack forward, was sick. Truly sick. The healers whispered of seizures, uncontrollable shifts, fevers that wouldn’t break. Every night, I’d check on him, sitting just outside the door to the makeshift infirmary, listening to th
