Petal's POV

The morning after his confession, the world felt different.

The air in the camp still carried its usual scents — smoke, damp fur, iron but beneath it, something softer stirred. The storm had washed the land clean, and for the first time in weeks, the pack didn’t wake to shouting or the clang of training weapons.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

I spent the early hours in the healer’s hut, sorting what little herbs we had left. Garcia slept in the corner, curled under a threadbare ...