“She doesn’t have a wolf?”
The muttered question ricocheted through the training yard, and every head turned.
The words weren’t shouted. They didn’t have to be.
Even in a yard filled with clashing staffs and grunts of effort, that quiet whisper carved through the air like a blade.
I froze mid-step, my fingers tightening around the wooden staff Maela insisted I carry, though no one ever really let me spar.
Someone else muttered, “She didn’t shift yesterday. Not even a tremor.”
“She’s broken.”
“No. I think she’s cursed.”
Heat flooded my cheeks, but I didn’t lift my head.
Don’t react. Don’t speak. Don’t give them more.
They didn’t say it loud enough for me to hear.
But they wanted me to.
From the side, one of the pups named Coren tossed his staff to the ground with a dull thud. He
