The packhouse stank of rot by dawn.
Not the smell of death. Worse. The smell of something that had been buried too long and had clawed its way back up.
Rafe was gone. The chains lay in pieces on the cell floor, melted like wax. The iron bars were twisted outward, like something had pushed from the inside.
Draven stood in the doorway of the empty cell, his face stone. His fists were clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white.
"He didn't escape," Draven said quietly. "He was taken."
"By what?" Kaia asked. Her voice was low, shaken.
Draven didn't answer. He just turned and walked out.
I followed.
The pack was already gathering in the yard. Wolves shifted, restless, ears back. The elders stood in a cluster, whispering. Elder Mara caught my eye and looked away fast.
