The grandfather clock in my office was wrong.
I stared at it from behind my desk, exhaustion making my eyes burn. Three-seventeen AM according to the antique timepiece that had belonged to my grandmother. But my laptop showed one-twenty-three, and my phone agreed. Even the small digital clock on my bookshelf displayed the same time.
Everything except the grandfather clock.
"That's... weird," I muttered, rubbing my temples where a headache was building. I'd been reviewing security reports for hours, trying to make sense of the international attention Luna's birthday party had attracted. Phone calls from pack leaders across six continents. Formal requests for "cultural exchanges" that sounded more like demands for access. And underneath it all, a growing sense that something was terribly wrong.
The grandfather clock chimed four times. Definitely wrong.