Ancient magic did not announce itself.
It slid through the world like breath between ribs, unseen and barely felt—unless one knew what to look for. The sentries along the outer perimeter never noticed the shift in the air, never sensed the quiet bending of wards as Lyr crossed into pack territory. Old concealment spells clung to him like shadow, etched into bone and blood long before packs had drawn borders or named Alphas.
He moved fast, silent, fury keeping his steps sharp.
By the time he reached the inner grounds, the moon was already high, its light washing the packhouse in cold silver. Voices drifted from inside—laughter, argument, life continuing as though nothing had cracked apart that night.
Lyr’s lip curled.
He found Aria at the far edge of the training field, where the fores
