Kane’s POV

I don’t sleep.

I pace.

The floor of my office is worn smooth by boots and bad decisions, by centuries of alphas who thought they could outmaneuver fate with planning alone. Night presses against the windows, thick and watchful, and my wolf won’t settle. He keeps circling the same thought, the same warning, like a thorn lodged too deep to pull free.

Something is coming.

I feel it in my bones.

The file in my hands is older than the packhouse itself. The pages are brittle, ...