ARDEN’S POV

The morning sun filtered through the wide windows of the pack house dining hall, spilling golden light across the polished tables and the glimmering silverware. The air smelled of roasted coffee and damp forest earth after dawn’s mist — peaceful, deceptive, almost too still.

I was halfway through a cup of bitter brew when the door opened, and peace shattered like glass.

She stood there — pale hair tangled from travel, clothes dust-stained, eyes burning with something ...