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"But Lilja had a blade hidden. A real one. Small enough to tuck in the wrist wrap. She cut Elira across the cheek. Deep. So deep that it healed like a grotesque smile later. Didn't look accidental to me."

There was a sharp intake of breath from Renna.

"I remember that,” Vir said slowly. "She said it was a mistake. Said the blade was from training earlier, and she forgot it was still strapped."

"Maybe," Garrik said. "But Elira didn't spar again after that. She has the scar still. I saw her last winter at a gathering."

Hagan's hands flexed against his arms, jaw tight. He didn't like that there were so many unknowns about the enemy. This was his first crisis as the future Highclaw. His father's ashes were stored in an urn on the mantle. He had decided that they would not be scattered in the sacred pool until his murderer was brought to justice. He couldn't fail.

"She would've been... thirteen?" Threk asked, his brows drawn.

"Twelve," Garrik said. "Just before they moved away."

"And Highclaw Draken?" Seren asked.

"He never spoke of it," Garrik replied, after a long pause. "But I remember the look on his face when it happened. He knew she was lying."

The fire hissed and popped softly in the silence that followed, flames licking up the chimney .

"She was always different," the oracle whispered more to herself than anyone else. "But I shut my eyes because she was my daughter."

A single tear streaked down her cheek.

"You did what you could," Veyr said grimly. "Because she's not a wild girl with a temper anymore. She's a weapon."

Renna and Kastor were seated just behind them. Renna was unusually quiet, her normally quick wit dulled by the enormity of what they faced. Kastor, however, seemed more focused than ever. He had grown into himself—tall, composed, always a few thoughts ahead. He spoke softly, and carefully, but every word boer a wealth of insight. His plans to set up a tech base in the human cities had progressed—Renna had taken the reins on much of the management. Their tribe's integration with the outside world was a delicate operation, but one that might soon prove essential.

Still, no one knew what was happening in Starnheim. The tribes guarded their borders zealously, and the Starnheim tribe had not attended the tribe gatherings in years. A cousin of one of the warriors had mated into Starnheim. Messages had been sent, but no reply had yet returned. The silence itself was ominous.

Veyr finally spoke, his voice cutting through the murmur. "We need a plan," he said. "We need to be ready. That means training. Everyone. No more soft boundaries. No more pretending that war isn't coming. Everyone needs to stay within the tribe boundaries. We don't know what lurks beyond the wards. "

And so, it began.

They formed units. Groups. Started drills. Fought with wooden weapons and sharpened resolve. The longhouse quarters filled, bodies crowding into once-silent halls. Sleep came late and the day started while it was still dark outside early.

Hagan, though weighted with duty, found time—every morning—to wait at Seren's doorstep.

Without fail.

Every chance he got, he crept in and hid under the bed in wolfform. Or at least he tried to get his head under, the rest of his massive frame out for the whole world to see. Seren just didn't have the heart to drive him away.

He had begun to leave small gifts for her.

Each morning, Hagan was already waiting by her door. He never knocked—just stood there like a mountain she'd have to climb eventually. Most days, she emerged in loose pants and a bandeau, camera slung around her neck, curls still damp from the cold wash. And every time, Hagan looked pained. Distracted. Protective in a way that bordered on absurd.

He'd clear his throat and silently drape his hoodie over her shoulders. "You'll catch a chill," he'd mutter, though the mornings were warm. She pretended to roll her eyes, but she wore the damn thing every day. It smelled like pine and rain, like the salt of his sweat and the safety of her forest. All her favourite things.

He didn't like it when she and Threk wandered off into the woods, either. He'd follow, shadow-stepping behind them with an expression that barely masked his annoyance.

He didn't like any of the males sparring with her, though he did his best to keep his jealousy in check.

One morning, she found something different at her doorstep.

Folded carefully beside her boots was a satchel—soft leather, dark as dusk, worn but perfectly crafted. It had compartments built exactly to fit her lenses, her spare battery, her cloths, her carefully wrapped prints. There was even a thin pocket she'd later find a feather tucked into, and a folded note in his messy scrawl: I want to see the world through your eyes, my moon.

She didn't thank him. She just wore it, and the next day he looked quietly pleased.

Then came the pendant.