SERAPHINA’S POV
The coastal transit warehouse behind the institute was nothing glamorous—a squat concrete structure crouched between salt-scrub grass and a stretch of cracked asphalt that obviously hadn’t seen steady traffic in years.
Its windows were dark, doors mottled with rust, but the low, electric hum crawling beneath my skin told me all I needed to know.
Wards. Old but efficient.
I pulled my jacket tighter as I approached, the wind sharp and damp against my cheeks. The smell of brine and oil hung heavy in the air, carried in from the far-off docks.
Inside, four wolves were in the final stages of prepping a matte-black transport van. Unlabeled wooden crates lined the walls.
I stepped inside, and all four heads turned toward me.
The woman closest to the van—lean, her blonde hair yanked into a severe knot—was the first to step forward.
“You’re Seraphina Blackthorne,” she said. Not a question.
I swallowed. “I am.”
