“There were human boot prints at the site,” I add. “Whether coordination or manipulation, we assume exposure risk.”
Gideon steps forward slightly from the outer ring. “Curfews precede war,” he says evenly.
“Curfews precede chaos,” I answer.
He studies the gathered wolves rather than me. “You restrict movement while granting a human access to patrol analysis.”
“She works under supervision,” I reply. “She moves nowhere without escort.”
One of the younger wolves shifts his weight. “Why risk her involvement at all?”
“Because she identified a repeat corridor we had overlooked,” I say. “That information strengthens containment.”
Gideon tilts his head thoughtfully. “Or it draws us closer to human entanglement.”
“It keeps us ahead of exposure,” I counter.
The clearing remains tense, but no one steps forward to challenge openly.
“This is not war,” I say. “This is discipline. Anyone who violates curfew answers directly to me.”
Silence follows, heavy but contained.
“Dismissed,” I conclude.
The pack disperses in clusters of quiet conversation. Voices carry fragments of doubt and loyalty in equal measure.
“He is tightening too fast,” one mutters.
“If humans push harder, we respond,” another says.
Across the clearing, Gideon speaks quietly with two younger wolves. His posture remains relaxed, his tone low and persuasive.
Ciaran joins me on the outskirts of the ring. “He is framing this as preparation for conflict,” Ciaran says quietly.
“I expected as much,” I reply.
“You could challenge him openly.”
“Not yet,” I answer.
Across the clearing, Gideon meets my gaze briefly before inclining his head in subtle acknowledgment.
The curfew stands. The perimeter tightens. And the tension within the pack deepens, coiled and waiting.
9
CASSIDY
Ciaran drops the patrol binder onto the kitchen table like he wants it to bruise the wood.
“Everything you asked for,” he says, then folds his arms. “Routes, rotations, time stamps.”
The binder smells like cedar and smoke, same as the estate, and the pages inside are marked with crisp ink and tight handwriting. I slide it closer, ignoring the way my shoulder tugs under the gauze as I sit.
“You keep these logs daily,” I say, flipping to the first tab.
Ciaran watches my hands instead of my face. “We keep them when we have to.”
