The air in Lupus Haven had become a solid thing. It was no longer a medium for scent and sound, but a weight that pressed down on the shoulders of every wolf, thick with the musk of suspicion and the electric tang of repressed fury. The success in Vienna was a distant, sterile fact; it did nothing to warm the chill that had taken root in the den.
The epicenter of the tension was the training grounds, a vast, natural cavern where the scent of damp earth and sweat usually spoke of discipline and strength. Now, it smelled of a coming storm.
Orrin was leading a combat drill with a unit of younger warriors. His instructions, once crisp and instructive, were now barks of pure aggression. He moved among them like a force of nature, his corrections physical and sharp—a shove to correct a stance,
