The stronghold slept uneasily that night.
Wounded wolves filled the healer’s hall, groaning beneath poultices and bandages, while the fires in the courtyard burned low, casting long, watchful shadows. Even the youngest pups, usually restless and untamable, clung close to their mothers’ sides as though sensing the danger pressing in on all of them.
But Draven Kaelith did not sleep.
He stood at the highest watchpoint of the fortress wall, cloak snapping against the cold night wind, golden eyes narrowed on the dark horizon. His wolf prowled just beneath his skin, restless, refusing to be silenced. It wanted to pace the halls. It wanted to circle the healer’s wing where Elaria Vayne was working through exhaustion, her small hands still steady despite the toll. It wanted her scent filling it
