The training grounds lay beneath a pale winter sun, its light diffused through drifting mist that clung to the earth like a held breath. The pack had gathered in loose formation, their silence thick with curiosity and something far less charitable.
Elara felt it before she saw it — the subtle shift of bodies, the quiet tilt of heads, the way whispers died when she crossed the boundary stones.
They were watching.
Not her steps.
Her weakness.
A low murmur passed through the ranks.
"Is she trembling?"
"No… listen. Her pulse is uneven."
"Strange scent… not fear. Something else."
Elara kept walking.
Slow. Measured. Refusable.
She would not give them the satisfaction of hesitation.
A soft, deliberate clap broke the tension.
Serena emerged from the semicircle of wolves like a blade sliding from silk.
Tall. Composed. Beautiful in the way frost is beautiful — lethal and untouchable.
Her smile did not reach her eyes.
