"You were right," Magnolia said as she pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, the cold wind slicing through the southern archway like a warning. "They're afraid."
Camille stood beside her, overlooking the moon-washed courtyard where dozens of wolves gathered in silence, no ceremony, no order, just a growing tension that wouldn't release. "Not of me," she said. "Not really. They're afraid of what I remind them of."
"The past," Rhett muttered, emerging from the shadows near the torch line, his voice raw with the weight of too much knowing. "Of what they did."
"No," Camille said. "They're afraid of what's left."
She stepped forward, the torchlight licking across her boots as she made her way toward the northern gate where the old barracks had long been abandoned. Her steps were quiet, measured, like she could feel the eyes watching her from unseen balconies and cracked windows.
