Vilka took a deep breath, her fist hovering before the wooden door. She knocked—three soft, decisive taps—and clasped her hands tightly to still their tremor.
"Please come in!" The cheerful call from within was a way of the peaceful River Pack; doors here were rarely barred, and trust was a given.
Stepping into the humble home, Vilka was enveloped by the aroma of mushroom soup. From the kitchen, Alma's gentle humming drifted out. The normalcy of the scene only sharpened Vilka's anxiety. She sank onto a chair, her posture cycling rigidly from a formal cross-legged pose to a tense slump, betraying the nervous storm within her.
"Javia! I told you I would call you when the soup is ready. You have no patience at all!" Alma was speaking as she came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands with a towel. "You suddenly remember you have a neighbor for food, but I've been away for long and you've been living just fine for…"
