Brooks' POV
Brooks sat across from his father in Alpha Griffin's office, the room dimly lit by the late afternoon sun filtering through the tall windows.
The walls were lined with maps, reports, and records of recent attacks—a grim testament to how fragile their peace had become.
Brooks tapped a finger against the security logs in front of him, his jaw tight. "The western patrol caught rogue tracks again near the old riverbed. Fresh. They were watching."
Griffin exhaled heavily, rubbing his temple. "How many?"
"At least three. But that's not all." Brooks flipped to another report. "Forrest and Ridge found traces of magic on the training grounds last night. Not strong, but definitely there."
His father's eyes darkened. "Witches."
Brooks nodded grimly. "And we still don't know how many are working with her."
