The sanctuary breathes differently at dawn.
Light seeps through the stone-veined cliffs in slow ribbons of blue and silver, touching the lake first, then the trees, then the bodies of wolves who sleep wherever exhaustion finds them. The air hums softly, alive, attentive, like the valley itself is listening.
I wake before the light reaches my shelter.
Not because of danger.
Because of weight.
My Mark burns faintly beneath my skin, a low, insistent heat that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with warning. My wolf lifts her head inside me, ears pricked, muscles coiled.
"Something is wrong," she murmurs.
I sit up, heart already racing. "Here?"
"Yes. And… not here."
That makes no sense, and yet it does. The sanctuary has a way of speaking in half-truths and sensations instead of words. I swing my legs off the woven bedding and step outside.
