Caelan POV:
By the time Elara and I reach her room, the afternoon has settled into that steady lull where the pack moves with quiet purpose rather than urgency, voices low beyond the walls, footsteps measured, the day turning toward evening without anyone needing to announce it. It gives us space, and I take it, because conversations like this are better held before anyone else decides how they should go.
She closes the door behind us and turns to face me, the light from the window catching along her cheek and collarbone, her expression already focused, already part of the strategy rather than waiting for one to be given.
“Tell me how you want to handle them,” she says.
Not what they want, not what we owe. But how we move.
I lean back against the desk, folding my arms slowly, studying
