POV: Silas
The night was alive with the sounds of wolves moving through the camp, the faint murmurs of my pack carrying a sense of anticipation. The firelight glinted off Tyrell’s blade as he sharpened it, the metallic scrape blending with the crackling flames. He didn’t speak, but the tension in his movements said everything.
Tyrell was waiting. We all were. The pieces were falling into place, and soon, Talon Pack wouldn’t know what hit them.
A rustle at the edge of the camp drew my attention, and I turned to see a figure emerging from the shadows. The spy. They moved with the practiced ease of someone used to going unnoticed, but I had trained my eyes to see what others couldn’t. Their hesitation, the brief flicker of guilt across their face, didn’t escape me.
“You’re late,” I said,
