By the time we make it back to the packhouse, the quiet from the ridge is gone and replaced with controlled urgency, and wolves move faster through the halls while voices stay low and tight.
The injured are already being brought in, and I step into the medical room as one of the patrol wolves is lowered onto a table, and his breathing is uneven while blood soaks through his shirt where the strike landed.
“Hold him steady.” Someone says, and hands move immediately, and there is no hesitation and no confusion, and that alone tells me the pack is holding better than before. But it is not enough.
I move closer and take in the damage, and the wound is clean and precise, and it is not meant to kill instantly and it is not meant to leave him untouched, and it sits exactly in the space between.
