Atticus steps forward slightly.
“And if that vision is wrong.”
The words strike deeper than he intended.
“It was not wrong,” I snap instinctively, and the authority in my voice sharpens the air between us.
He hesitates.
For a brief second, something instinctual rises in him.
A challenge.
It is subtle but unmistakable.
He almost pushes back.
Almost asserts his authority over mine.
The moment hangs suspended.
Then he catches himself.
The realization flickers across his face as he steps back, but the shift is permanent.
The bond between us has changed.
Not broken.
Changed.
Axel sees it too.
“You are not beneath us,” he says quietly.
“I never was,” I reply.
The silence that follows is not comfortable.
It is honest.
That night, when the packhouse has quieted and the elders
