Freya paced back and forth in the cramped safe house, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. The hours felt like days, and her patience had long since worn thin. She turned abruptly to Draven, who sat casually on a rickety chair near the door, sharpening a knife with deliberate movements.

"This is ridiculous," Freya snapped. "We can’t just sit here forever. Every second we waste could put us in more danger. We need to go to the pack house now."

Draven didn’t look up. He continued sharpening the blade, the scraping sound grating on Freya’s nerves. "And walk right into an ambush?" he said calmly. "Brilliant idea, Freya....