DRAVEN
She looked cold. Composed. Her expression was unreadable as she surveyed the room, taking in the tension, the chaos, the wolves still reeling from the High Alpha's visit.
"What's wrong?" she asked, her voice flat.
Elias answered before I could. "The High Alpha was just here."
Morgana stopped.
Just for a second.
Her body went still, her eyes flicking to me, and I saw it—shock, sharp and sudden, before she buried it beneath her usual mask.
"Here?" she repeated, her tone carefully neutral. "In Hollowhowl?"
"Yes," I said, my voice cold. "And he brought news."
She waited, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.
I held her gaze, my jaw tight.
"Althea escaped," I said. "Into the Mist."
Morgana didn't move. Didn't speak.
"And if she made it through," I continued, "she's likely in North Clan territory now."
For the first time since I'd known her—since she'd stood beside me as Gamma, cold and calculating and unshakable—Morgana went white.
Not pale.
White.
