The wolves didn’t come howling but came quietly. Calla sensed them at midmorning—four presences approaching the lodge with measured steps, restrained dominance, careful intent. Not challengers. Not supplicants. Negotiators.
She stood from the table and slipped the crescent pendant around her neck, feeling the silver settle like a steady heartbeat. The lodge door opened before any of them could knock. They halted, surprised.
A woman led them—tall, dark-haired, her scent layered with old authority and newer caution. The others hung back, deferential.
“Luna Prime,” the woman said. “I am Mara of the Westreach. We come under neutral terms.”
“You’ve already crossed neutral ground,” Calla replied calmly. “But you’re welcome to speak.”
Mara inclined her head. “Then I’ll be direct. Rask’s deat
