The great hall smelled of roasted venison and fresh herbs, the long tables already half full with pack members grabbing their morning meal before the day's work pulled them in different directions.
Lila stepped inside with Magnus at her side, the noise washing over her like a familiar tide.
A group of hunters argued good-naturedly over the best tracking spots near the western ridges. Two apprentices from the training yard sat near the hearth, one with his arm freshly wrapped, laughing despite the pain as his friends ribbed him about the fall.
At the far end, an elder storyteller held court with a cluster of wide-eyed children, gesturing wildly as he described an old raid that probably grew taller with every telling.
She felt the knot in her chest loosen a fraction. This was Frostfang at its core — not the walls or the banners, but the stubborn rhythm of people refusing to let the wild outside break them.
