The sound of the camp collapsing around me was a constant hum: the creak of wood being gathered, the rustle of fabric as tents were folded, firm footsteps on damp earth. Everything was calculated, precise, as if every wolf knew exactly what to do and when.
The rogues didn’t move like the wolves I knew, with their strict hierarchies and barked orders. But neither did they fit the chaotic disorganization we had always been told defined them. There was a quiet efficiency, almost natural, that I found unsettling.
From my makeshift wheelchair, I watched everything unfold. The seat was uncomfortable, rough against my skin, but at least it allowed me to maintain some dignity, sitting upright while everyone else worked. Even so, the glances cast my way were hard to ignore.
Some eyes passed over
