Hattie:
The air outside had changed.
It wasn’t just the chill crawling in with the late autumn winds—it was something deeper. Something primal. The kind of shift you feel in your bones before your mind can even make sense of it. A warning.
The rogue attacks were getting worse.
We used to get warnings maybe once a season. A pack member might report tracks, maybe catch a scent. But now? It was every day. Burned-out patrol camps. Torn fences. Screams in the distance at night. Every time I walked outside, my senses stretched thin, waiting for something to pounce from the tree line.
Even without my wolf, I could feel the danger closing in.
I stood by the window, arms wrapped around myself, watching as two guards paced along the borderline. Their postures were tight. Alert. Ready for a fig
