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The scent of pine and tension filled the circular stone chamber as moonlight streamed through the skylight, illuminating the faces of pack members gathered for the emergency council. My father, Alpha Richard Morgan, stood tall at the center of the room, his weathered face grave as he addressed the assembly. "The rogue attacks along our eastern border have increased threefold in the past month," he announced, his voice echoing off the ancient walls. "Three of our patrols have been ambushed. Six warriors injured. Two dead." A collective growl rumbled through the chamber. I felt my stomach tighten as I scanned the room for Alexander. His seat beside my father remained conspicuously empty, the polished oak chair a silent accusation. Where was he? Tonight of all nights?