Leila POV
The packhouse hums with tension, a living pulse of anxiety that vibrates through the hardwood floors and stone walls, the air thick with the lingering scents of blood, pine, and the sharp bite of antiseptic from wounded warriors patching their gashes in the halls. My head still throbs from the strange headache in the Saferoom, a dull, relentless ache that pulses behind my eyes, as if Aria—my wolf—is clawing to break free but remains a faint whisper, a shadow just beyond my reach. Miss Ophelia fusses over me in the kitchen, her warm, calloused hands checking my pulse with a gentleness that belies her stern demeanour, her bread-and-herbs scent a comforting anchor in the chaos. She presses a cool cloth to my forehead, her eyes distant. “Long ago, before Blood Moon rose strong, Shad
