The awareness hit her before the alarm.
Lyra lay half-dozing in the guest cabin, half-listening to the quiet thrum of Hollow Ridge through the new sense braided into her. The wards were a thin, silver line at the back of her mind—steady, humming, almost soothing.
Then they flared.
Pressure brushed the outer edge, not a full hit, just a testing fingertip. Her wolf snapped awake, ears up. Lyra was on her feet before her conscious brain had caught up, heart already thudding.
“Too soon,” she muttered, jamming her boots on without socks.
She shoved the door open. Cool air slapped her, carrying the scent of pine, damp earth—and rising tension. Somewhere toward the main house, a siren whooped once, then cut. Short-range alert, not full-scale.
Cassian’s voice came over the little radio on he
