The Puppeteer

Talon’s POV

The wind whistled through the courtyard, cold and sharp. I tightened the scarf around my neck, glancing at the sky where dark clouds were already coming out. The storm last night hadn’t cleared the air — it had only made everywhere colder.

My boots crunched over gravel as I crossed toward the side gardens, drawn by the faint sound of laughter. Not many dared to linger outside this morning, not with the tension within the pack.

But Brielle was there.

She stood by the frozen fountain, her gloved hands tracing patterns along the stone edge, her hair loose and gleaming even under the gray sky. When...