Batista's POV
I was inside the tent with Eric, bent over the maps scattered across the table, when the noise began outside. At first, I barely noticed it—just another quarrel, I thought. Soldiers snapping at each other, or families still mourning their dead after the Nocturnis attack that had nearly wiped out half the pack. But then the shouting rose, sharp and frantic. It carried through the camp like wildfire, pulling my chest tight before I even stood up.
"Something's wrong," Eric muttered, already pushing to his feet.
We stepped out of the tent together, the cool night air biting my skin. My eyes swept the camp—and I froze. A crowd had gathered near the center, their bodies pressed tight, faces pale in the torchlight. The sound wasn't quarrel. It was panic.
I grabbed the first person I could reach, tapping his shoulder. It was Kiran—the healer. His face was drawn, eyes wide.
"Kiran—what's happening?" I demanded.
