Pell’s burial was held at the edge of the eastern trees as the light began to fail.
There was no large gathering. No formal procession. Only Asher, a handful of senior wolves, two of Pell’s closest runners, and me. The pack had been told a border runner had fallen in the line of duty. The full truth — the note, the deliberate placement, the signature behind it — remained inside the smaller circle for now. Panic would not bring him back. Focus might prevent the next one.
Asher spoke the short traditional words himself. His voice carried no performance, only the flat weight of an Alpha who had lost someone under his protection. When the earth closed over Pell, a few of the runners touched two fingers to their brow in the old gesture of respect. Then the group dispersed without lingering.
