Dinner was served by 9 as requested and went smoothly. The Blood Moon warriors were strictly regulated indeed. Like clockwork men, they marched to the mechanisms of their routine, which I learned was dinner at 9, practice from 10 to 12, cleanup, drinks, then it was lights out. They barely spoke to one another, let alone me or my children, not even a thank you for the lodging or food. They've been here half a day, and the gamma is the only one I've spoken more than three words to. It's unnatural. We're pack animals, after all. There seems to be no comradery, no warmth in their ranks. Even over the drinks—which they brought—there was no idle chitchat between them, stories, or songs. They just recited oaths to their alpha, who isn't even here. It's just another ritual, a mark in their routine. This is no normal camp. 1:05 AM, and I find myself in bed listening to nothing but eerie silence, trying to process this situation. I can't just let them leave with the girls, can I? I'm not stupi
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