(Kaelen)
The demand arrives by messenger.
An actual messenger — old pack tradition, the kind that means whoever sent it wants it witnessed, wants it formal, wants there to be no ambiguity about what was said and who said it. He arrives at the Silver Crescent gate on horseback at midday, three days after the eastern border, and he's wearing neutral colors that don't claim any specific pack but whose cut I recognize immediately.
Dorian's tailor. Same man, same stitching at the collar. I know because I spent three years approving Dorian's wardrobe choices and apparently some information just lives in you whether you want it to or not.
I'm in the garden when Sora finds me. My shoulder is still wrapped, still aching in that deep way that means it's healing but hasn't finished yet, and I've
