They picked a date.
Not some dramatic anniversary or Council milestone—just a gap in the calendar when patrol rotations were light, commission meetings minimal, and Ivy declared she could survive a week without both of them underfoot “as long as no one licks the ward stones while you’re gone.”
Route planning took over Atlas’s office for two evenings.
Maps spread across the table—printed, digital, scribbled—each dotted with notes in three different handwritings. Hollow Ridge’s territory sat at the center like a steady heartbeat. Lines radiated out: to Red Rock, to a small coastal pack experimenting with refuge, to a rogue‑friendly town where Aiden said witches and wolves shared coffee instead of territory lines.
“We can’t hit them all,” Cassian said, finger tracing a loop. “Not in a wee
