THALIA's POVThe tower was a place of echoes, and I had learned to translate them. I had spent weeks in this room, a prisoner of circumstance and my own history, and in that time, I had become a master of the pack’s language—not the language they spoke with their tongues, but the one they spoke with their movements, their shifts in pace, and the collective vibration of their presence.Mid-morning, the acoustic quality of the Great North shifted. It was subtle, the kind of change that would bypass anyone who hadn't been forced to live as a ghost in their own life. The pack had been existing in a state of brittle, jagged tension for days, a "strike-silence" that felt like a held breath. But then, it snapped.Movement. Not the rhythmic, predictable pace of guards on rotation or servants delivering trays, but something rapid, urgent, and discordant.I moved to the window, sliding into the deep, protective shadow of the stone frame. Below, in the central courtyard, the world was alive. Peo
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