Bethany
The packhouse smells wrong.
It takes me three steps inside to realize it.
Not wrong in a way anyone else would notice. The same wood polish, the same layered wolf scent and morning coffee. But beneath it, threaded through everything like a new seam, something has shifted.
Aligned.
Wolves move with purpose instead of habit. Conversations don’t stall when I pass, but they don’t open either.
I’m acknowledged.
Respected.
And no longer centered.
I pause just inside the entryway, adjusting my gloves slowly, giving myself time to observe without appearing to.
No one looks to me for confirmation.
Yesterday they would have.
Interesting.
I move deeper into the packhouse, posture relaxed.
Power notices panic.
Near the training schedules board I stop beside Mara, one of the youn
