The rumor did not arrive like thunder.
It came like breath against the back of her neck.
Soft.
Persistent.
Unavoidable.
Elara first heard it in the weaving hall, where several female wolves gathered to repair ceremonial cloaks damaged during earlier patrol clashes. The room smelled of wool and pine resin, the air warm with quiet industry.
She had entered without announcement, carrying a stack of fresh linen.
Conversation stopped.
Not abruptly.
But enough.
One of the younger wolves cleared her throat.
"Thank you," she said carefully.
Elara nodded and began placing folded cloth on a nearby table.
Behind her, a whisper floated.
"Queen."
It was faint.
Barely audible.
But wolves heard everything.
Her shoulders stilled.
She did not turn immediately.
Another voice, slightly firmer.
"They call you Queen."
Elara slowly faced them.
"Who does."
A silence followed, thick with hesitation.
The youngest wolf glanced at the others, then lifted her chin slightly.
