Scarlett’s POV

The first vision comes to me like a bruise.

Not sudden. Not sharp. Just a slow ache blooming behind my eyes as I sit by the window, watching dusk settle over the pack territory. The sky is bruised purple and red, clouds stretched thin like torn skin. I’m counting breaths—one, two, three—the way I’ve learned to do when the ancestral echoes stir too close to the surface.

It doesn’t help.

My fingers curl into the windowsill as the air thickens, as if the world itself is ...