The sanctuary does not fracture all at once.
It stretches.
Like muscle pulled slowly to its limit.
The morning after Seraphina leaves, the valley hums with motion. Not panic, purpose. Wolves pack supplies, argue over maps, trade names and routes. Fires are banked low and shelters reinforced, not because of immediate danger, but because everyone understands the same unspoken truth:
This place can no longer be the only place.
I stand at the ridge overlooking the eastern pass, watching the first group prepare to leave. Three adults. Two children. One healer. They're headed toward a ruined monastery near the lowlands, stone walls, old ley-lines, human territory that the council rarely watches.
A seed.
My wolf watches them go, ears flicking. "You're tearing yourself apart."
"I'm multiplying," I whisper.
She snorts softly. "That's what tearing feels like."
Maera stands beside me, staff planted firmly in the earth.
