Raphael's POV
They said it was a fever. Said it hit overnight, quiet and quick, like a thief slipping through an open window. But wolves don’t get fevers like that. Not unless something’s wrong. Something deeper.
The first death came at dawn. Jonas. A good soldier. Tough. Loyal. He went to bed fine, and came up coughing blood by morning. By midday, his eyes had glazed over, and by sundown, we burned the body.
The second death came two days later.
Then the third.
Five in total by the end of the week.
None of them are old. None of them are weak. All in their prime. All warriors. And all of them had trained directly under me.
The pack was rattled. I heard it in the silence, in the way they stopped laughing around the fires, in how they kept their children close. No sparring. No morning
