Crystal had learned long ago to trust the moments that made her stop mid-step.
They were never dramatic. Never loud. No visions, no sudden pain, no prophetic dreams like the stories liked to exaggerate. Just a pause. A tightening in her chest. A sense that something unseen had shifted, ever so slightly, out of alignment.
This morning, it happened as she was pouring tea.
The cup slipped in her hand, hot liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim before she steadied it with a sharp inhale. The scent of chamomile filled the kitchen, familiar and grounding—yet her pulse refused to slow.
Bree stirred.
Not lazily. Not with the warm, content presence Crystal had grown accustomed to over decades.
Bree rose.
There is a wrongness, her wolf said.
Crystal set the cup down carefully, fingers
