[Ava's POV]
The aftershocks of Jaxon’s near-collapse in the pump room had not subsided; they had merely changed frequency, settling into a low, constant hum of precarious tension.
The pack moved through the Vault like sleepwalkers on a ledge, hyper-aware that the slightest tremor could send one of them—the most controlled of them—over the edge. It was into this atmosphere of hair-trigger fragility that the elders arrived.
They were not of the Council. Their authority was older, woven into the bloody tapestry of pack survival itself.
Three of them: Goran, a mountain of scar tissue and grizzled fur with one milky, seeing eye; Elara, sharp-boned and sharp-eyed, her silence more accusing than any shout; and Bren, who carried the stale scent of deep earth and forgotten tunnels.
They had
