The pack house had never felt so divided. The courtyard still bore the scars of the trial—the cracked stones where Lydia had fallen, the scorch marks where Bella’s golden fire had burned into the ground. Some wolves lingered there still, whispering in clusters, too cautious to speak their doubts aloud but too restless to keep them buried.

Bella saw them as Alfred guided her down the corridor. Their eyes slid over her like knives, not open hatred, not yet—but suspicion, sharp and cutting. ...