The sun hadn't even fully cleared the jagged peaks of the Eastern Ridge when the pack bell began its rhythmic, bronze tolling. It was the heartbeat of the Black Widow territory—a signal that the world was moving, whether I was ready for it or not.

From the granary nearby, the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of the Omegas pounding grain drifted through the open window, a domestic sound that usually felt grounding. Today, it just felt like a countdown.

I rubbed my face with a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion. My eyes felt like they’d been scrubbed with sand, a souvenir from the hours spent staring at the silent phone and that cryptic journal until...