Eli
The commotion starts just after dawn.
I’m halfway through stacking firewood next to the kitchen when the first shout rips across the clearing.
Wolves spill from cabins, boots crunching in the frost. I freeze with a log in my arms, my wolf prickling to alertness. Patrols don’t call out like that unless something’s wrong.
I drop the log and follow the flow of bodies to the center of camp. The crowd tightens into a rough circle, murmurs low and tense. My heart lurches when I see them. Three scouts dragging someone between them.
Someone from another pack, reeking of foreign soil and blood. His hands are tied behind his back with silver‑thread rope, his face a mask of bruises. His breath comes in ragged gasps, but his head is high, eyes clear.
The whispers spread fast. One word repeat
