Morning broke harsh and cold over Bloodfang Pack. The sky was a pale, cracked gray, like it was already preparing for war. The wind carried dust across the training ground, lifting old ashes from battles Liora had won without blinking.
Liora stood at the center of the field, shoulders squared, crown gleaming above her head. Her power simmered under her skin, steady, sharp, dangerous. She looked calmer than she had been in weeks, the wild edge of rage replaced by something quieter, more controlled. But not softer.
Never softer.
Her wolves watched from a distance, pretending they weren't watching. Nyssa sharpened a blade. Dante rolled his shoulders like he was preparing for trouble. Even Kael, bonded, bitter, and miserable, kept glancing up from where he stood with Elira, as if expecting Liora to snap in half the world again.
Gonzalo approached her from behind, silent, steady.
He didn't touch her.
He didn't speak.
