AUBREY'S POV
The dream always started the same way—with screams.
I was small again, barely more than a pup, crouched beneath the heavy wooden table in our pack house. My mother's hands shook as she pushed me further into the shadows, her voice urgent but quiet: "Don't make a sound, my love. No matter what happens, stay silent."
The scent of blood filled the air, thick and metallic. Through the gaps between chair legs, I watched feet moving across our floor—boots I didn't recognize, stepping over bodies I did. My father's best friend Thomas, his throat torn out. Sarah from the kitchens, her golden hair stained red. Little Jamie, who used to share his cookies with me, his small body terrifyingly still.
Screams echoed through the halls—voices I had known all my life cut short one by one.
