“Report," Wilson said.
“Border shrank another mile," Andrew answered, tapping the map with a blunt finger. “West ridge is gone. Rogues test us every night, peel back at dawn, repeat."
“How many?"
“Small packs. Mean. Organized enough to be annoying, not stupid enough to die on our line." He hesitated. “With Veronica gone and you still limping—"
“I'm fine."
“You're slower," Andrew said, not cruel. “They know it."
An elder cleared his throat. “Alpha, optics matter. Donors ask why our territory keeps… changing."
“Because we fight with half our teeth," Andrew said.
“Enough," Wilson cut in. “Solutions."
“The same solution we gave you six months ago," the elder said. “Ask Snowstorm."
Murmurs rose. Someone muttered, “Lucas."
Andrew glanced at Wilson. “We've stalled long enough."
Wilson
