We left while the pack slept. Owen and I slipped through the rear gate while the sentry’s breath fogged the air in slow, even ghosts. The night had thinned into that limbo hour when even the owls were quiet. Frost slicked the stones. And our steps didn’t sound like anything at all. Owen kept to my right, two strides behind. He didn’t talk. He didn’t need to. We had run these paths as pups, then as warriors, then as whatever we were now, wolves who knew how to disappear. The forest knew us; it didn’t snitch. When we reached the old cut road, he touched my elbow.
“Left,” he breathed. “The ridge is watched,”
“I know,” I mouthed, already turning. Thomas had doubled the south quarter after Maggie’s distraction. He would triple it after her death. He would expect me to come loud. He would ex
