Sheila
They come at dusk.
Not soldiers. Not enforcers. No spectacle.
That alone tells me something’s wrong.
Two wolves I don’t recognize stand just beyond the human-side boundary, posture neutral, expressions blank in that infuriatingly calm pack way. No aggression. No apology either.
Just certainty.
“Brianna’s been approved for pack school,” one of them says. “She’ll start tomorrow morning.”
For a second, the words don’t land.
Approved.
Pack school.
My mouth opens, already forming something sharp, already ready to demand, accuse, tear into.
“You’ll receive the schedule and conditions shortly,” the other adds. “Transport will be arranged.”
That’s it.
A decision delivered like the weather.
Like something that was always going to happen.
“You don’t get to decide that,” I snap.
