Breakfast is louder than usual.
Not in volume.
In texture.
I enter the communal hall at the same pace I always do, bowl in hand, braid tight, posture straight but not rigid. I do not scan the room obviously. I do not look like I am measuring anything.
But I am.
Three wolves near the north table lower their voices half a beat too late.
Two near the hearth continue talking deliberately, forcing laughter that does not reach their eyes.
One older warrior meets my gaze steadily and nods once without smiling.
Layla hums faintly.
They are sorting.
“Yes.”
I move to the counter and ladle stew into a bowl. The kitchen smells of bread and spice and smoke, ordinary scents layered over tension. I carry the bowl to an empty seat at the long middle table.
Conversations bend around me.
Not si
