LANDON
The approach is polite.
That is how I know it is dangerous.
He waits until late afternoon, when the packhouse has settled into its predictable rhythm between training and evening meal, when patrol rotations hum quietly in the background and no one expects conflict to surface in plain sight. I see him before he speaks, standing just beyond the archway of my office corridor with hands clasped loosely behind his back and posture relaxed enough to pass as casual.
“Alpha,” he says warmly when I step closer. “A word.”
His tone is respectful, almost affectionate. He has been part of this pack longer than I have worn the title, and that history gives him gravity. Wolves listen when he speaks. Wolves assume wisdom when he pauses.
I gesture toward my office without comment, and he follo
