Alden woke before the sun.
He always did now.
Not because he was told to.
Not because anyone expected it.
Because responsibility had settled into his bones early, and once it did, sleep never quite held him the same way again.
At ten years old, Alden moved through the Alpha quarters with quiet certainty—steps measured, shoulders squared, eyes already scanning for what needed doing. He dressed himself, checked the corridor outside his room out of habit, then paused long enough to make sure his sisters were still asleep.
Elowen sprawled across her bed, hair a wild halo, one leg tangled in blankets. Lyra slept more neatly, hands curled near her face, breath soft and even.
Seven.
Too young to carry anything heavy yet.
Alden lingered a moment longer than necessary, then turned away.
B
