The river crossing emptied slower than it had filled.
Lucien's final words still lingered in the air long after his escort withdrew. The summit had not erupted into open hostility, but it had not resolved into comfort either. It had sharpened lines.
Elara and Alessandro had held steady.
But the pack had seen something else.
Pressure.
Luca felt it as soon as they returned to the estate. The wolves moved with controlled silence, yet beneath that discipline ran something raw and unsettled. Questions unspoken. Loyalty quietly weighed.
He stood alone in the armory that evening, hands braced against the heavy oak table scarred by past campaigns. Weapons lined the walls—not for display, but readiness. Steel gleamed in low lantern light.
He exhaled sharply.
"Damn it."
The word echoed faintly off stone.
He closed his eyes and memory pulled him backward.
Years ago.
