Rowan felt it before he heard it.
A subtle tightening beneath his ribs. Asher stirring—not restless, not alarmed, but alert in the way a blade was alert when lifted from its sheath.
Something had shifted.
The packhouse was quiet in the early hours of the morning, the kind of stillness that came only after long nights and uneasy sleep. Snow pressed against the windows, thick and soundless, muffling the outside world. Rowan stood near the central hearth, hands braced against the mantel, eyes unfocused as he listened—not with his ears, but with instinct.
Then boots sounded down the hall.
Measured. Familiar.
Dustin appeared in the doorway, jaw tight, shoulders squared. Serena followed just behind him, her expression unreadable but sharp-eyed, taking in every detail of Rowan’s posture bef
