Chapter 4 — The Gathering Storm

By the time the hall filled, the whole village knew something was wrong, and Riley had learned enough in five seasons of leading them to know that a fear left to whisper in the dark curdled faster than any fear spoken plainly in the light.

So she called them together. The old timber-and-stone hall groaned with the press of bodies, wolves and humans both, their faces lit orange by the torches along the walls. Elias stood at her shoulder, steady as a post driven deep. Clara hovered near the front with her son's hand clutched in hers, the boy pale and quiet now. Lila leaned against a pillar with her sharp green eyes moving over the crowd, cataloguing its mood the way she catalogued everything, her auburn hair pulled back for work. On the raised platform at the far end the elders sat in their unreadable row, and Elder Garen's fingers tapped the arm of his chair — disapproval, Riley had long ago decided, though the truth was she'd never once heard the old man say a useful thing out loud.