As Aurora grew, eight, nine, then ten, Ethan approached her emerging gift with the same reverence he had once used to teach her how to braid her own hair. He never treated her intuition like a weapon to be sharpened for war. Instead, he treated it like a delicate instrument, testing it gently and always with her consent.
At first, the tests were harmless. He’d ask her which route they should take home, then quietly choose the opposite just to see. Without fail, they’d encounter a sudden road closure, a fallen tree, or a delay that proved her instinct right. Later, he’d have a trusted pack member tell a harmless white lie about the night’s dinner menu. Aurora would immediately wrinkle her nose in distaste.
"He's saying pasta, Daddy, but the air feels... metallic. It's wrong."
Ethan wo
