It was a Tuesday when the next one showed up.
Not with a Council liaison and carefully worded letters this time. No Thornridge plates on a pickup. Just a lone figure at the edge of the trees at dusk, half-shadow, half-nothing, scent sliding along the wards like a question.
Lyra felt it first.
She was in the common cabin with Maris and Theo, arguing about whether the new alert tones were “obnoxious enough to wake a dead Alpha” (Theo’s words) when a faint tug brushed the back of her mind.
Not a hit. Not a push. A…tap.
She straightened, mug halfway to her mouth. “Hold that thought,” she said.
Maris blinked. “What—?”
“Rogue,” Lyra said. “Alone. North trail. Doesn’t feel like a scout.”
Theo glanced at the monitor, fingers flying over the keys. A grainy feed blinked up—trees, low light,
