Heather’s POV
The man kneeling before us didn’t carry the scent of fear. Nor submission. What he carried was something deeper—worn resilience, the kind that comes after losing everything and somehow still choosing to stand again.
Callum of Greyrock.
I’d heard the stories. Everyone had. Before Marcus burned his pack to ash, Greyrock had been one of the most honored among the old families. They were known for balance—discipline, tradition, compassion. And for the wolves they raised. Callum was supposed to be the strongest of them all.
But the man before me looked broken.
He held a young girl in his arms. Her cheek was smudged with ash, hair tangled in leaves, her lips cracked and pale. The boy beside her stood swaying, his ribs poking through a shirt that had once been white.
I stepped
