Holly noticed it in the quiet moments.
Not when the packhouse was loud with movement or conversation. Not when Lila and Mira were nearby, filling the space with cautious laughter or whispered plans.
It was when she was alone.
The feeling came in the spaces between breaths—an itch between her shoulder blades, a prickle along her spine that made her slow mid-step. She would pause, heart thudding, eyes scanning doorways and windows that showed nothing but snow and stone.
Nothing was wrong.
That was the problem.
She stood at the edge of the courtyard, arms wrapped around herself as the late afternoon light faded into silver. The air was sharp, clean, carrying the faint scents of pine and woodsmoke and wolf.
Safe scents.
So why do I feel like this?
Holly shook herself, exhaling slowly.
