They do not call it a prison.
They use words like facility and structure and protective housing. They speak softly, carefully, like tone alone can soften what is being done, like language can reframe the act into something almost kind. The building sits apart from the pack proper, stone sunk deep into the ground, its shape squat and unyielding. Wards are layered so thick around it that the air tastes metallic the moment I cross the threshold, sharp on my tongue, humming faintly against my teeth.
This place was built to hold dangerous artifacts.
I know because my wolf knows.
She bristles the instant we step inside, hackles lifting, teeth flashing in a silent snarl meant for inanimate things that dare to confine her. The walls hum low, tuned to suppress, to isolate, to keep whatever is i
