The first scream came from the west.
It ripped through the Citadel just before dawn, sharp and panicked, carried by a runner who collapsed at the gates with blood on his hands that wasn't his own. His wolf barely held together long enough to deliver the message before shock stole his voice.
"They burned it," he gasped. "They burned the whole settlement."
Aria was already moving before the words fully landed.
The western outpost had been small. Civilian-heavy. A neutral haven for displaced wolves who had refused to choose either the Council or the Citadel. It had been deliberately unguarded, deliberately nonthreatening.
A message.
Damien's face was carved from stone as he read the sigil-confirmed report. "No survivors."
The war room went silent.
Not disbelief.
Understanding.
Aria stood at the center of the chamber, hands braced against the table, power simmering beneath her skin like a living thing straining against restraint. Her wolf did not rage. It went very still.
