A Pack on Edge
The once-celebratory atmosphere of Crimson Fang had shifted into a simmering tension. The packhouse, now locked down under Draven’s orders, buzzed with unease as warriors patrolled every corridor and perimeter. The sounds of boots on stone echoed through the night, accompanied by the occasional growl of frustration.
Draven stood in the grand hall, his fists pressed against the war table as his amber eyes scanned the reports. His presence was a storm barely contained. Susan approached with her usual sharpness, holding a piece of parchment smudged with hurried notes. “We found traces of the poison near the kitchens,” she reported, her voice clipped. “But no sign of who planted it. Whoever they were, they’re ghosts.”
Draven’s hands curled into fists. “Whoever it is, they’re still here,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. His pack’s strength was legendary, but the knowledge that someone had infiltrated their celebration cut deeply.
In a quieter corner of the packhouse, Isla sat with Micah, her hands protectively over her stomach. Her silver hair, usually radiant, was dulled with worry. “The twins are okay?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Micah crouched in front of her, her sharp healer’s eyes scanning Isla carefully. “They’re fine,” she reassured her, pressing a calming hand over Isla’s. “But we can’t take any chances. Stay close, Isla.”
Isla nodded, trying to focus on the reassurance rather than the fear clawing at her. “Someone planned this,” she murmured. “And they didn’t just want to hurt me. They wanted to hurt our family.”
From across the room, Draven caught her gaze. The fire in his eyes softened just enough as he crossed the hall to stand beside her, his hand resting on her shoulder. “We’ll find them,” he said, his tone leaving no room for doubt.
Isla looked up at him, her voice steady despite the fear underlining her words. “This was a warning,” she said, her silver eyes meeting his. “And whoever did this won’t stop.”
