The conference room smelled like coffee, ink, and too many opinions.
Lyra sat sideways in her chair, boots propped on a rung, turning a pen between her fingers. The big table was littered with maps—territory outlines, ward schematics, rough sketches of other packs’ lands. A few crests she recognized; others were new.
Atlas stood at the head, one hand braced on the table. Elara sat at his right, notebook open but mostly watching. Cassian lounged across from Lyra, posture relaxed, eyes anything but. Nia, Darius, Sienna and Theo filled in the other seats.
“This,” Atlas said, tapping one map, “is Thornridge’s official footprint. This—” he tapped a second, more detailed print, dotted with notes “—is what Jonah sent us. Actual patrol routes. Unofficial borders. Places Silas has been moving pe
