It takes a couple of hours before Atticus finally makes it back to the packhouse, and by the time he pushes open the door to the war room the weight in the air has settled so thick it feels like breathing through wool. Axel and I are still sitting at the table where Alpha Nyx left us, surrounded by books and notes that no longer feel like tools so much as warnings, and I know we look exactly how we feel because Atticus stops short the second he sees us.
His gaze flicks first to Axel, then to me, and then to the unfamiliar Alpha standing near the far wall, calm and composed like he has all the time in the world.
“Who’s this,” Atticus asks, his tone polite but guarded, shoulders already squaring on instinct.
“Alpha Nyx,” Axel answers quietly, “from Grey Hollow.”
Atticus’s brows draw toge
