Chapter 20 Echoes Of The Rift

The pack house feels like a battlefield after a rout—quiet, bruised, holding its breath. I lean against the wall in the main hall, my arm throbbing under the fresh bandage, watching the fire spit and crackle. Every muscle aches, every breath stings, but it’s nothing compared to the knot in my gut. Fynn’s back—alive, thank the goddess—but she’s not the same. None of us are. She’s on a bench by the hearth, curled into Morgan’s side, her face pale and streaked with dirt, blood crusted under her nose. He’s got an arm around her, tight, like he’s afraid she’ll vanish again if he lets go. His silver eyes are locked on her, fierce and soft all at once, and I get it—losing her, even for those few hours, cuts him deeper than he’ll ever say. I’ve known him years, seen him take hits that’d break most, but this? This is different.