The packhouse feels different when we return from the cemetery, and the shift is not loud or ceremonial but structural, like something that has been humming under strain has finally found its proper pitch.
Wolves are gathered in the courtyard without being summoned, and their posture is not tense or suspicious but attentive, because the territory has been steady all morning and they have felt it in their bones.
Axel’s hand rests lightly at my back as we step forward together, and Atticus walks at my other side with quiet command that no longer feels like reaction but like placement.
No one kneels.
No one bows.
They simply watch.
“The borders have not flickered once,” one of the senior patrol wolves says, his voice carrying without challenge.
Another nods. “The perimeter feels deeper
