The pack meeting is called midmorning, slotted neatly between patrol updates and resource checks. Routine, on paper. The kind of meeting that’s meant to reassure more than inform. No urgency flagged. No special summons. Just a quiet expectation that everyone will show up and nod along.
Cheyenne knows better the moment she walks into the room.
The packhouse conference space smells like too many wolves trying to appear calm. Coffee gone slightly stale on the back counter. Paper. Wood polish. Under it all, the faint metallic edge of adrenaline that doesn’t belong in a room meant for logistics. Chairs scrape softly as people settle, legs of metal and wood protesting in uneven chorus. Conversations taper off not because anyone calls for order, but because attention has already shifted, reorie
