ALEXIS
The warmth of the packhouse had changed the moment they arrived.
Before, it had been full of familiar comforts—the scent of spiced cider curling with the low hum of conversation, candlelight catching on polished wood, the soft, steady pulse of layered magic woven into the walls. Protective sigils carved into the beams thrummed in slow, even beats, in tune with the heart of the pack. It felt safe. Settled.
Then the shadows stretched.
The temperature dipped, not from any physical draft but from something deeper, older. The candle flames wavered, straining against a pull not meant to exist in this space. The wards hummed in response, shifting, realigning.
I didn’t have to turn to know my parents had noticed.
Dad and Mom had been near the fireplace, outwardly relaxed, half-listen
