Silas.
The warriors returned just before dawn, when the pack grounds were still quiet and the sky had only just begun to lighten. A faint grey stretched across the horizon, soft and deceptive, as if the world had not yet decided whether to wake or remain still.
But the silence did not last.
Word spread quickly, faster than footsteps, faster than breath. By the time the warriors reached the main hall, the guards had already moved aside, their expressions tense, and a servant rushed ahead to announce their arrival.
Silas had been waiting.
He stood at the center of the room, unmoving at first glance, but there was nothing calm about him. His posture was too stiff, his shoulders too tight, as though he had been holding himself together by force alone.
The air around him carried a restless energy, the kind that came from pacing too long, thinking too much, expecting something that had not yet come.
His eyes found them immediately.
