The wind changes three days after the battle.I notice it first at dawn, standing on the eastern watchtower with the sky bleeding orange over the trees. The air feels heavier, charged—like the land itself is bracing for impact. My wolf lifts her head inside me, hackles rising.Danger doesn’t always announce itself with claws and blood.Sometimes, it whispers.I tighten my cloak around my shoulders and scan the forest below. The rebuilding has been steady. Too steady. Warriors train harder now, faster, pushing themselves beyond exhaustion. Healers move through camp like shadows, tending not just wounds but fear.Fear is harder to heal.“They’re waiting,” Aria says beside me.I don’t look at her. “So are we.”She exhales slowly. “The scouts returned from the southern border. No sign of movement—but that worries me more.”“It should,” I reply. “Silence is a strategy.”I’ve learned that lesson the hard way.Below us, Liam crosses the clearing, moving carefully but stronger with every pass
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