Pack training days have their own rhythm.
I feel it the moment I step onto the field, even though I’m not wearing training gear and I already know I won’t be shifting today. The ground is packed hard from years of drills, boots and paws and claws grinding the same earth into something dense and unforgiving. Dust hangs faintly in the air, mixing with the sharp tang of sweat and the cleaner scent of pine drifting in from the tree line. Wolves move in loose clusters, stretching muscles, rolling shoulders, talking over one another as they test space and hierarchy without ever naming it outright. Laughter breaks out here and there, sharp and brief, then fades as Alpha Steven arrives and the tone tightens like a cord being pulled taut.
I take my place at the edge of the field.
Not hiding. Not
