Walking back into the packhouse feels nothing like the last time I stood on these steps, shoulders tight and heart braced for impact, because now the air shifts around me in a way that is deliberate instead of confused, and I feel it immediately in the way wolves straighten when I pass, heads dipping and gazes lowering with intention rather than reflex. It isn’t fear this time, and it isn’t uncertainty either, it’s recognition, and that difference settles into my bones with a strange mix of relief and resolve.
Axel and Atticus flank me without crowding, close enough that the bond hums steady and reassuring, but they don’t shield me the way they did before, because they don’t need to anymore. The marks at my neck are no longer hidden, and neither is my place, and as we move through the mai
