The final forty-eight hours before the full moon passed in a blur of militaristic precision and suffocating tension. The mansion had transformed from a secluded estate into a fortified war garrison. The constant, rhythmic thud of running boots, the metallic clatter of weaponry being distributed, and the low, collective vibration of the pack link echoed through the stone corridors.
Clara spent most of her time confined to the upper pavilion, but she was no longer pacing the room in human panic. She sat by the large windows, watching the horizon. The dark green canopy of the Blackwood Forest seemed unusually still, as if the woods themselves were holding their breath. The swirling white mist had thickened, turning a heavy, ominous shade of charcoal grey as the lunar cycle approached its abs
