The dawn that broke over the northern packhouses did not bring the usual disciplined rhythm of supernatural labor, but a freezing, hollow silence. Inside the grand fortress of the Iron Claw Pack, Alpha Raymond stood in the center of his massive communal kitchen, his dominant cedarwood aura flaring in a volatile wave of confusion and rage. The ovens were cold. The heavy iron pots sat empty on the stone counters. The daily tracking ledgers lay unsigned on the master table.
For the first time in three generations, there was not a single servant awake to prepare the clan’s morning ritual.
"Where are they?" Raymond roared, his deep voice rattling the copper pans hanging from the ceiling. He turned toward his panicked Beta, who was frantically clutching a digital roll-call tablet. "The lower c
