The mess hall isn't a room, it's a territory. Too many wolves packed too close, every scent layered until it chokes. The unmistakable tang of adolescent werewolf fills the air; hunger, sweat, challenge. It slams into me like home and danger all at once.
There must be hundreds of students here, jammed shoulder-to-shoulder on military style benches, shoving food into their mouths and barking out laughter and insults, their voices blending together into a relentless noise that slams into me like a fist.
I keep walking. Movement means belonging.
As we step in, the tide of conversation stutters and ebbs, giving way to the scraping of trays and the sharp scrape of boots on the battered stone. Most every head snaps around, eyes tracking us through the gauntlet. I feel each stare, prickling lik
