The storm had already started.
And Sylvia was feeding the flames.
By the time Brielle and I left the war room, the whispers had spread like disease through the packhouse.
Not loud. Not obvious.
But there.
Lingering in the corners of hallways. Slipping through hushed conversations between warriors. Even the Omegas, normally too cautious to speak against leadership, were murmuring.
It was precisely what Arthur wanted.
And exactly what Sylvia had planned.
I could see it in the way she moved through the packhouse: shoulders squared, voice measured, an air of careful concern wrapped around her like a cloak.
She wasn’t yelling accusations.
That wasn’t her style.
No, Sylvia let other people do the talking.
And they were.
The whispers had turned into questions.
The questions into dou
