The weeks following our return from the High Crag were a blur of reconstruction and uneasy peace. The "United Ridge" was no longer just a name; it was a sprawling, chaotic reality. We had moved the Eastern survivors into the lower valleys, mixing their blood and their duties with our own people until the distinct scents of the two packs began to blur into a single, complex aroma of cedar, snow, and woodsmoke.
But as the physical walls of the Ridge grew stronger, the psychic atmosphere grew stranger.
"Something is wrong with the twins, Luna," Martha said one evening, wiping her hands on her apron as she cornered me in the infirmary.
I paused, setting down a crate of medicinal roots. "Elara and Bastien? They’re barely fourteen, Martha. It’s just their first shifts coming on. The New Blood
