The first thing I noticed was the silence.
Not the peaceful kind — not the quiet that settles naturally when the pack sleeps — but a brittle, watchful silence that felt stretched too thin. Like a breath held too long.
I felt it the moment I stepped outside my cabin the next morning.
Conversations didn’t just stop when I passed anymore. They didn’t start at all.
Wolves stood in small groups across the yard, their bodies angled subtly toward me, eyes tracking my movement with a focus that made my skin prickle. No one spoke my name. No one needed to.
I had crossed an invisible line.
The air smelled sharper than usual — pine, earth, and something else beneath it. Anticipation. Fear didn’t always stink of panic. Sometimes it smelled like preparation.
I kept my gaze lowered and walked tow
