Flint’s POV

The morning light poured into my study as I stood by the long table, the scent of parchment and ink clinging to the air.

My father sat across from me, his presence as commanding as always. He looked up from the papers in his hand, his brows arched, waiting for me to speak.

“I want to propose something,” I said, forcing my voice steady.

He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “Go on.”

“The wolves of this pack,” I began, “need training. Consistent, focused ...