Aiden's Point of View
The late afternoon sun filters through the blinds, casting slanted golden stripes across my desk. I sit in my office, the chair creaking quietly beneath me as I shift my weight. The pack house is unusually quiet, too quiet. Just the steady ticking of the old clock on the wall and the faint rustling of papers keep me company.
I rub a hand over my face, then lean forward again, elbows braced on the desk. The reports are scattered across the surface, incident reports, scout updates, doctor's assessments, and maps marked with the attack patterns. I’ve read them all more times than I can count, but I go through them again, methodically. Page after page. Every detail is a puzzle piece, and I keep hoping the right pattern will suddenly click into place.
The Gray Mountain
