I woke in Greywood with salt on my lips and seabirds crying in the distance. Sera's workshop was small but warm. Hides hung from the ceiling beams. The tang of curing agents and beeswax filled every breath.
My bandaged arm throbbed where the Bladeclaw claw had raked it, but the wound was finally scabbing over—slow, the way it goes when your wolf-blood runs too thin to heal right.
"Three days," Sera said, dropping a bundle of leather scraps on my table. "You've been out three days. Healer said your pulse barely read."
I touched my ribs. Bruised. Cracked, maybe. "They're still looking for me."
"Let them look." Sera's eyes flashed gold. "You're dead to them now. The carriage that brought you here got scrubbed clean. No scent trail, no rune signature. You don't exist in Silvermoon City any
