The pack wakes before the sun fully rises. Not loudly. Not chaotically. But with purpose. The air shifts first — scents thickening as bodies move between cabins, patrol routes refresh, hierarchy reasserts itself in quiet dominance displays. Smoke curls from central fire pits. Boots press into damp soil still heavy with morning dew. I watch it all from the edge of the healer's porch. I shouldn't be standing. My ribs ache in slow, pulsing reminders. My shoulder burns where silver and branches tore through skin, but confinement is worse. The walls press too close. The air inside still smells faintly of him, and it's making my headache from the day prior come back. Out here, at least, the wind moves freely. Two younger wolves stand near the training circle, their voices low but careless in that way wolves often are when they think they're unobserved. "I'm telling you, he carried him." "I saw it." "Since when does he carry anyone?" A pause. "Not since..." "Stop." Silence. "
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