Tristan
The air in the western archives was stagnant, smelling of dust and the slow decay of the pack’s oldest records. My father had sent me here to find the original border treaties from the Great War, a task that felt more like a punishment for my "agitation" than a necessity.
I pulled a heavy, leather-bound ledger from the top shelf, coughing as a cloud of grit billowed out. My wolf, Vane, was restless, his nose twitching. He didn't care about treaties. He cared about the scent that was suddenly cutting through the musty air like a blade of sunlight.
Rain and iron.
I turned, and there she was.
Rena was standing by the large oak desk in the center of the room, clutching a stack of fresh parchments to her chest.
She looked startled, her eyes wide as they fixed on me. She was weari
