Alaric
The morning air was a razor, slicing through the thin silk of Alaric's tunic as he sat on the Great Hall balcony. The "Broken Moon" had retreated, leaving behind a sky the color of cold woodash. Below him, the valley was a theater of movement.
It was the morning run—the ritual heartbeat of the Mooncrest pack. Normally, the Alpha would lead, a streak of obsidian fur at the head of a thundering tide. Now, Alaric sat behind a stone balustrade, his hands resting on the cold, unresponsive leather of his armrests.
"He's doing it on purpose," Mei's voice came from behind him, soft but spiked with a sharp, protective edge. She stepped forward, her hand ghosting near his shoulder, not quite touching but offering a warmth that the bond instantly amplified.
"He doesn't do anything by accident, Mei," Alaric rasped.
