Ryder pov

The news hits days after our talk about the future. I'm in the command center reviewing supply inventories when Luna bursts through the door, a thick envelope in her hand. Her face is tight with anger.

"They're cutting us off." She tosses the envelope onto the table.

I pick it up, scanning the formal letterhead. Council seal at the top, followed by dense legal language that boils down to one thing: economic sanctions. Traditional packs are forbidden from trading with Iron Fangs ...