The Hollow had not been used in years.
It was a den carved from stone at the edge of the valley, reinforced with ironwood doors and guarded night and day, when occupied.
The pack called it a safehouse, but everyone knew it was a holding cell for their own kind—wolves who had crossed a line too dangerous to ignore but were not yet condemned.
That was where Shannon put Aiden.
They had dragged him out of the ruin the night before, wrists bound with rope, not iron. He did not fight. He carried himself with the look of someone already preparing for the next punishment. His eyes were sharp, his jaw tight, but his steps were steady.
Kim locked the door himself. Mira checked the wards twice. Bran hovered near the threshold until Shannon sent him back with a warning look.
It was not until dawn that they saw the strip of parchment nailed under the lamp pole on the road. The ink was fresh, the words plain:
NOT FINISHED YET.
