Before they even push the door open, a piercing cry, sharp and shrill cuts through the thick tension in the hallway.
The baby.
The sound is not just loud; it's primal, supernatural, something more than mere wailing.
It pierces into the marrow of every wolf nearby, so sharp and deafening that they instinctively cover their ears, eyes squeezed shut against the jarring frequency.
Something in Tanner snaps. His chest heaves once, then again, and suddenly a sound breaks from him.
It rises from somewhere deep, a place older than memory, forcing its way out of his throat. It begins as a low rumble, trembling in the pit of his stomach, then grows louder, heavier, until the ground trembles beneath their feet.
His voice becomes a roar, a force, ancient and commanding, vibrating through the walls, through the bones of every wolf.
Before anyone can process what's happening, Tanner's body contorts. Fur bursts through his skin in a flash of energy.
