The breach is clean.
Too clean.
No scattered tracks. No torn boundary markers. No visible damage beyond a single outer post snapped low enough to signal entry but not force.
It happens just before dusk, when patrol shifts overlap and the packhouse hums with transition. I am in the lower training wing reviewing inventory logs when the alarm call travels through the hallways, sharp and urgent but not panicked.
“West boundary. Confirmed breach.”
Layla lifts instantly beneath my ribs, not flaring, not lunging, but rising like heat under steel.
Calculated, she murmurs.
“Yes.”
I step into the corridor as wolves begin moving in coordinated streams toward the central hall. No one runs. No one shouts. The control is deliberate.
Which means someone expected this.
By the time I reach the co
