days had passed since our midnight conversation in the Whispering Woods, and Dante's condition had deteriorated to the point where even standing required visible effort. His grandmother, Elena Blackwood, had arrived within hours of our desperate phone call, her ancient Mercedes kicking up dust clouds as she'd torn down our driveway like a woman half her age.Now she sat across from us in our living room, her weathered hands spread across a collection of texts so old I was afraid they'd crumble if I breathed on them too hard. At ninety-three, Elena was one of the few remaining wolves who remembered the old ways, the magic that existed before packs became obsessed with territory and politics."Environmental drawing," she murmured, adjusting her wire-rimmed glasses as she traced a passage with
