The rest of the day moves slower than it should, and wolves work and patrols rotate, and the packhouse breathes in a way it has not in a long time, and I let myself settle into it just enough to understand what is different now.
By evening, the light has turned softer, and I step outside with my coffee and stop near the back steps where I can see the tree line stretching beyond it.
This should feel peaceful, and it almost does.
But something is wrong, and the wind moves strangely through the branches, and the sound of it feels off in a way I cannot explain, and there are no birds and no smaller movements filling the space between gusts.
The silence is too complete, and the chill that moves through me has nothing to do with temperature.
I set the mug down and narrow my gaze toward the
