Book Five, Chapter 90: The Pack
I woke to the faint hum of a refrigerator and the soft rustle of curtains moving in the breeze.
My body ached to stretch, muscles tense but unfamiliar, like a coat that no longer fit quite right. When I opened my eyes, the room was bright with mid-day light.
I went to move, bracing for soreness, for pain.
And there was none.
My body moved like a tightly wound spring.
I looked around.
No. I sniffed the air. My sense of sight was not dominant anymore. My sense of smell was.
I wasn’t in the woods anymore. The forest’s damp, earthy smell had been replaced by something cleaner—fresh linen, faint soap, and... wolves. The scent was thick, clinging to the air like smoke, comforting and unmistakable.
It was in the walls, the furniture, and even me.