The planning room smelled like ink and wet wool.
Nightfall didn’t have a war‑room carved from stone with banners and torches the way Silvercrest did. It had Rowan’s overworked office, an extra table dragged in from the hall, and three wolves who looked like they’d rather be running but had accepted that thinking came first.
Aria stood at the table with Rowan and Lena. Human town maps lay layered over hand‑drawn patrol charts. Someone — probably Lena — had drawn a crude little wolf head over the stylised moon of the Project Lycans logo.
“Very professional,” Aria said, tapping it.
“We work with what we have,” Lena replied. “Including my art.”
Rowan pointed to the town grid. “We agree on three things,” he said. “One: they know we exist. Two: they don’t yet know how we move. Three: they’r
