The morning after the town felt strangely… normal.
Aria woke to pale light, birds arguing in the trees, the muffled thud of someone dropping firewood downstairs. No pounding heart, no phantom city noise, just the familiar ache of the bond simmering at a manageable level.
Her wolf stretched, yawned, then flopped over with clear disinterest in the south.
Progress.
In the hall, the usual organized chaos was already in motion. Mara directed a brigade of teenagers carrying sacks like a general. Pups argued over whose turn it was to fetch water. The smell of bread and smoke wrapped the room.
Aria grabbed a slice from a cooling rack, earning a half‑hearted swat from Mara.
“Hands off the ugly ones,” Mara said. “We hide those at the bottom.”
“They taste the same,” Aria said around a mouthful
