The scent of ash clung stubbornly to the damp autumn air.
Dawn broke across the Northern Territory not with warmth, but with a cold, pale gray that cut through the thinning mist. Outside the pack clinic, scorched timber and shattered glass bore witness to the night’s violence. Inside, however, the air smelled only of carbolic acid, crushed winter mint, and the sharp, iron tang of freshly spilled blood.
Elara did not stop to wipe the sweat from her brow. Her sleeves were pushed past her elbows, revealing pale forearms spattered with crimson. Her harvesting apron, once crisp linen, was soaked at the hem. Her fingers, steady and mercilessly precise, pulled a curved suture needle through torn flesh.
"Hold still, Torin," she commanded. Her voice was flat, devoid of panic or exhaustion. "If y
