The scream ripped through the yard before the torches finished sputtering.
Lyra’s head snapped toward the sound on instinct, body already moving before thought caught up. The crowd was still packed tight from her speech, wolves tense and bristling, the air thick with the kind of silence that only existed because everyone was waiting for someone else to break it.
Someone did.
A young wolf staggered out from the third row, hands pressed to his stomach, eyes wide with shock. He wasn’t an enforcer; he wasn’t a fighter. Lyra recognized him. One of the kitchen runners. Barely old enough to have scars.
Blood threaded between his fingers.
He looked at Lyra like he couldn’t understand why this was happening to him.
He smelled faintly of bread and soap, like he’d come straight from the kitchen
