The letters are not battle plans.
They are worse.
I stand beneath the tree line with wax fragments still warm between my fingers and read the first page again, slower this time, forcing my mind to separate anger from analysis.
It is not a call to arms.
It is not a map of troop movement.
It is language.
Carefully arranged.
Calibrated.
Weaponized.
“Bond strain.”
“Luna instability.”
“Alpha distracted.”
Each phrase is written cleanly, almost clinically, like bullet points on a training board. There are no emotional flourishes. No overt threats. Just suggestions. Talking points. Seeds.
Layla goes very still inside me.
Not rage.
Understanding.
They are not trying to break walls.
No.
They are trying to break perception.
The second letter is worse in its precision.
A list of na
