The packhouse had its own rhythm.
Holly was starting to recognize it—the way footsteps softened near certain corridors, the way voices lowered instinctively when passing elders’ quarters, the unspoken understanding of when a space belonged to someone else.
The kitchen, however, belonged to everyone.
That was why she liked it.
She lingered near the wide counter, helping one of the omegas—Maeve, she thought her name was—slice apples for a tray of pastries cooling near the hearth. The scent of cinnamon and yeast filled the air, warm and grounding.
“So,” a warrior murmured near the doorway, not quite whispering, not quite bold enough to speak freely. “You felt it too, right?”
Holly’s hands stilled.
Maeve’s knife paused mid-slice.
Another voice answered, lower. “Everyone did.”
Holly ke
