The silence of the packhouse was deceptive. Believe me on that.
On the surface, everything looked the same. Guards at their posts with their shoulders squared, servants moving through the halls with their heads down, and the faint, familiar smell of roasted meat drifting from the kitchens.
But beneath the mundane routine, tension coiled like a snake waiting to strike. I could feel it in my bones, a low-frequency pulse of anxiety vibrating through the stone floors.
The pack knew.
Wolves always know when the wind changes, even before the storm hits.
Slowly, I walked down the corridor, my fingers brushing the rough stone walls.
Every step carried the trace of a ghost.
In my last life, this had been the day I lost everything. I remembered running down this same hall, tears blurring
