“You are human,” he snaps.
The words sting more than they should.
“Then treat me like one,” I shoot back. “Not like a child.”
He inhales sharply, and for half a second I think he might drag me back toward the center stone. Ciaran’s voice rises behind him, cutting through the panic with firm authority.
“Kieran, take a sweep team,” Ciaran orders. “Jace, Tomas, eastern edge, now.”
Boots pound stone. Voices sharpen into commands.
Alden’s attention splits, pulled by duty, and I use the fraction of distraction like leverage. I twist my arm hard, turning my shoulder into the movement and sliding out of his grip with a practiced, field-hardened jerk.
Alden’s hand catches air.
I step back once, then turn and run.
“Cassidy,” Alden barks behind me.
I do not stop.
The clearing blurs as I sprint between wolves, dodging bodies and staff and scattered maps that flutter off the board. The air smells like dust and smoke now, and the wind carries it in sharp gusts that burn the inside of my nose.
“Stop,” Alden commands, his footsteps heavy behind me.
I sprint harder.
My lungs fill with cold air and adrenaline, and my boots strike stone and dirt in quick rhythm. I hear Alden close thedistance, then hesitate, his pace stuttering as if someone calls his name.
Ciaran shouts again, louder this time. “Alpha, we need you here.”
Alden swears under his breath. His steps slow.
I do not look back, but I feel the change in the air behind me, the moment he chooses the pack over chasing me. The decision should make me angry, but it makes something else flicker too, a strange sense of being seen as important and also not important enough to outweigh leadership.
It is complicated, and I don’t have time to dissect it. I cut out of the clearing and into the forest.
The path toward my cabin is familiar now, worn into my mind through repeated hikes and field runs. Trees whip past, branches scraping my sleeves, the ground uneven and slick in places where frost still lingers. Smoke becomes stronger with every step, thickening in the air until my throat tightens.
The cabin comes into view through the trees. The front corner is blackened.
One side of the porch rail has collapsed inward, charred wood splintered like bone. Smoke curls upward in thin gray strands, carrying the bitter scent of burned pine and old resin. The sight lands in my chest with a hard thud, because it is not just property damage.
It is deliberate.
I slow just enough to orient myself, then move forward again with cautious speed. My hand goes to the bear spray clipped at my belt, fingers closing around the canister.
“Alden,” I mutter under my breath, half curse and half prayer.
He is not here.
Claw marks score the remaining porch boards, deep gouges carved into wood with violent precision. They are not random.They are placed in patterns, the same arcs and angles I photographed in the healing lodge, the same dominance in pressure that suggests one primary attacker.
I step closer, boots crunching over ash.
The front door hangs slightly ajar, warped from heat. Smoke seeps from the gap in slow pulses, and the glass in one window is shattered outward. My stomach tightens as I register the direction of the break, because it indicates something burst out, not in.
I hold my breath and listen.