Clara
The moment we stepped into the packhouse…
It felt like walking into a grave. The air was thick. Heavy with dust. With time.
With something else lingering beneath it all—old magic, long faded, and something darker that didn’t belong.
My boots crunched softly against shattered glass as we moved forward.
Every step had to be careful. Quiet. Controlled. But it was hard not to look. Hard not to feel.
This had once been a home. A pack. A family.
Now…
It was ruin.
The walls were scarred, deep gouges carved into the wood and stone from claws and magic alike. Old canvas paintings hung crooked or torn completely in half, their images faded and unrecognizable.
Books were scattered everywhere—pages yellowed, curled, some half-rotted from time and moisture. Papers littered the floor, br
