The Blackwood territory looked like hope had packed its bags and left years ago.
We arrived at dawn, our convoy rolling through streets that told stories of neglect. Buildings sagged with deferred maintenance. Storefronts displayed faded signs for businesses long closed. The few pack members we passed moved with their heads down, shoulders hunched against more than just the morning chill.
"This is worse than the reports suggested," Maya said quietly from the passenger seat.
"Morgana had five years to bleed this place." Morgan didn't look up from her tablet, but her voice was tight. "And the Council's temporary administration has been treating it like a holding pen, not an actual territory with actual wolves trying to live their lives."
The pack house appeared around a bend—massive ston
