Landon waits until the afternoon thins out.
It is deliberate. He chooses a moment when patrols rotate and the main hall empties, when conversations break into smaller pockets and eyes turn elsewhere. The pack is still busy enough that no one will immediately notice the tension, but quiet enough that nothing loud can hide. He approaches me the way he always does when he wants something he knows I might refuse. His posture is easy. His expression is careful. His voice is pitched low and reasonable, the tone of someone who expects compliance because he has framed the request correctly.
“For now,” he says, walking beside me, matching my pace without quite crowding my space, “I want you to stay on the inner paths.”
I glance at him.
Say nothing.
He takes that as encouragement instead of ref
