Holly didn’t sleep.
She lay in the unfamiliar bed, staring at the ceiling beams as the packhouse settled around her—doors closing softly, footsteps fading, the deep, distant hush of a place that never truly slept. Every time she closed her eyes, Rowan’s voice echoed in her mind.
Future leader.
The words didn’t frighten her as much as they should have.
That was the part she couldn’t stop thinking about.
By the time dawn crept pale and cold through the window, Holly had already decided she wouldn’t let it sit unanswered. She dressed quietly, pulling on warm layers, and slipped into the hallway before doubt could catch up to her.
The packhouse smelled different in the morning—woodsmoke and bread, pine and something earthy beneath it all. It felt alive, aware. Watching.
She followed the
