AISLYNMorning arrives the next day, breaking into the pack with its slow burn.

No alarms. No screams. No magic tearing at the bones of the packhouse. Just pale light creeping through stone corridors and the quiet, deliberate rhythm of a place pretending it was never wounded.

That pretense fools no one.

I feel it the moment I step into the hall.

Ashlyn is already there.

She stands near the council table, hands folded neatly in front of her, posture immaculate, expression calm enough to pass for ...