Caelan POV
Rourke and I stand near the western rise where the ground still bears the scuffs and torn earth of the morning’s fight, the broken undergrowth and scattered scent of blood speaking quietly of what happened here, discussing patrol rotations and border visibility in the low, pragmatic tones of men who understand that leadership after conflict is rarely about triumph and almost always about prevention.
It is practical work, necessary work. The kind that keeps packs alive long after the noise of battle fades. Footsteps approach from behind us, unhurried but purposeful. I do not turn immediately, I already know who it is.
Rowan’s presence carries a density that is difficult to mistake once you have felt it before. It’s not loud, not heavy or aggressive, but unmistakably present in
