118 | HANS AND HANNA

The days dragged on. If my life had been a whirlwind before, now it became the stagnant water of a green pond. The more time I spent back in Winterpaw, the more bizarre the normality of it all began to feel. There was an undercurrent of unease that cut through every too-normal conversation, that was present every time a wolf called me Luna or ducked their head in respect when I passed.

I fell into a routine of malaise: I woke to the knock of the medic, who checked on Ares, who was still yet to wake, and then checked my leg, which was healing well. I trained as best I could, sitting on an upturned bucket and exercising my arms with a sword, wishing Ares would wake all the while. I watched my dad integrate with the Winterpaw Warrior Wolves, and watched my mum keep her distance from them, a scowl permanently fixed on her mouth.

I dug the tip of my sword into the snow with a sigh. Across from me, Nana Baspy folded her arms.

“We’re training for a battle,” I muttered, my gaze sliding over