Maeve.
The courtyard buzzed with the rhythm of warriors sparring—steel on steel, grunts of impact, commands being barked over the gravel floor.
Carson stood at the center of it all, like a storm refusing to break.
Even from the shade of the archway, I could see the tension in his shoulders. Too tight. Too rigid. His movements, usually precise and calculating, were jerky. Off.
He raised his hand to signal a stance correction—then staggered.
Not a small slip. A full-body falter, like the ground had tilted beneath him.
“Alpha?”
The word echoed around the yard.
Carson didn’t answer.
His eyes fluttered, jaw clenched, and then—he dropped.
No warning.
No shift.
Just crumpled like his legs had been yanked from under him.
Gasps rippled through the ranks. Warriors froze mid-spar, steppi
