For the first week, I kept waiting for the floor to drop out. I’d walk down the hallway of the Pack House, shoulders hunched, bracing for a snide comment from a passing delta or the sting of a hex from a hidden corner. But the hallways were just hallways. The floorboards creaked underfoot, smelling of lemon polish and old wood. Wolves passed me with their heads dipped low, not in mockery, but in submission.
It was unnerving.
The routine settled over us like a thick, warm blanket. Morning started with the sound of the training grounds below our window. Breakfast was no longer a frantic scrap for leftovers in the kitchen; it was plates of eggs and thick-cut bacon served at the high table, the ceramic clinking softly while Guilermo nudged my knee with his own under the table.
I spent my da
