The packhouse smells the same.
Wood smoke. Stone dust. Familiar bodies layered with newer scents I do not recognize yet. The halls hum with restrained energy, voices kept low, movement controlled but restless. News travels fast here. Faster than footsteps. Faster than permission.
Derek does not let the momentum slow.
“You stay here,” he says again, just inside the threshold. “I will handle everything else.”
It is not a threat. Not a plea. It is delivered the same way he gives orders to his warriors, like the solution has already been chosen and the rest is simply execution.
I listen.
I do not interrupt. I do not argue in the doorway where half the pack can hear. I take in the tone, the words, the assumption beneath them.
Then I turn away.
Not sharply. Not dramatically. Just a pivot
