Chapter 80
White Stone Pack
Past two in the morning, the forest that cradles White Stone holds its breath. No patrols pass this way. No pups sneak out for dares. Tonight the trees themselves seem to lean closer, listening.
Deep under a rib of rock, a narrow slit in the hillside opens into a cavern—dry, echoing, old. Five elders of White Stone gather there, lanterns pooled at their boots, faces a map of months without sleep. They look gaunt. Clothes hang looser than they did a season ago. Knuckles are chapped. Eyes are ringed with the kind of darkness that never lifts, even at noon.
They wait in the low light, murmuring because to speak loudly feels like calling down another problem. They are waiting for someone—everyone knows who.
Footsteps scuff at the mouth of the cave. Aunt Linda appears first, thinner than she ought to be, shoulders tight from doing the work of three wolves for too long. Beside her, leaning an arm across Linda's back, shuffles Nana.
