The house was finally quiet.
Not silent—packs are never silent—but the sharp edges of the day had worn down. In the common room, someone half-watched a movie. In the hall, distant footsteps. A murmur of voices from the kitchen, then laughter that sounded more tired than amused.
I slipped out the back door.
The night air hit cool and damp, carrying the smell of pine and the faint, metallic tang of the ridge. Stars pressed low between the black teeth of the trees. The training yard lay empty, ring a ghostly pale circle in the dark.
Corren was on the watch platform above the yard, sitting with his back against a post, long legs stretched out, one hand curled around a mug gone cold.
I felt him before I saw him: the familiar signature of his power, banked but awake, threaded through with e
