The call comes just after dusk, when the sky is that thin blue-grey between day and night and the pack has not fully settled into either rhythm.
A patrol is late.
Not drastically.
Not yet alarming.
But two hours past their scheduled check in is not oversight.
It is design.
I am in the operations wing when the runner reaches me, breath sharp, eyes wide.
“They are back,” he says. “But something is wrong.”
Layla goes still inside me.
Cold.
I move immediately.
Not running.
Not panicking.
Walking with controlled pace through the corridor, through the courtyard where wolves are already gathering in loose clusters, sensing the shift in air.
The patrol stands near the gate.
Four upright.
One carried.
The unconscious wolf hangs between two others, head lolling, skin pale beneath la
