The shift begins quietly.
It doesn’t come with shouting or claws or blood.
It starts with looks.
After training ends, Aisha feels them immediately—the way conversations stall when she passes, the way eyes linger a second too long before darting away.
Wolves who had watched her stumble and fail now watch her with something sharper than doubt.
Calculation.
She’s still sore when she enters the pack house, still replaying Callen’s steady voice in her head—You’re untrained, not weak—when Amara steps into her path.
Perfect timing. As always.
“So,” Amara says lightly, folding her arms. “That was interesting.”
Aisha blinks. “Training?”
“Yes. That.” Her smile is thin. “I didn’t realize watching my father hover over you would become today’s entertainment.”
“He wasn’t hovering,” Aisha say
