Power did not erupt in Grimridge with cheers or rebellion.
It settled into the bones of the pack house the way cold did: quietly, inevitably, and everywhere at once.
By morning, the halls moved differently.
The pack had watched Cassian speak once, had watched the elders lose the kind of authority that mattered, and then they had gone to bed with a new understanding lodged in their instincts. When wolves woke up, they didn't debate hierarchy. They adjusted to it.
Sable felt the change before anyone addressed it outright. She stepped into the courtyard just after dawn, the air sharp and pale, the stones still damp from the night. Her ribs protested when she inhaled too deeply, and her shoulder felt tight beneath the binding, as if her body was reluctant to believe it could move without consequence.
She had lived too long in a state of bracing for impact, and it didn't vanish in a night, even if the pack's behavior did.
