The return to the western packhouse was nothing like Vale had envisioned. He had expected formality, bows of respect, and perhaps a little quiet before dusk fell. He also hoped to find an excuse to go and have a peek at Arin, watching her work was so relaxing. Instead, the air was charged with tension the moment he and Isolde stepped into the grand hall. The murmur of voices stopped, as if someone had thrown a cloak over the crowd. Eyes flickered nervously in their direction, then away again, like guilty children caught in a forbidden act.
Vale slowed, his sharp gaze sweeping across the gathered wolves. Something was wrong. Deeply wrong.
"Where is she?" he demanded, his voice sharp, brooking no hesitation.
Isolde looked around as well, the frown between her brows deepening. "Where's Arin?"
