The Blackwood ancestral home didn't advertise its age. No historical plaques, no architectural preservation notices. Just stone and timber that had witnessed two hundred years of pack politics, built when Seattle was still a collection of logging camps and territorial ambitions.
Kai pulled into the circular driveway, noting his mother's car already parked near the entrance. Marcus Montenegro's vehicle sat beside it—an arrangement that would have been unthinkable five years ago when family hatred had been policy rather than history.
"Grandma's house smells old," Luna announced from the backseat, her five-year-old diplomacy needing work.
"It smells like history," Aria corrected gently, unbuckling her seatbelt. "That's different from old."
"History smells like dust and weird furniture polish."
Kai caught Aria's eye. Small smile despite everything. Their daughter channeling cosmic prophecies through crayon drawings, but still completely five years old about furniture polish.
