The battlefield was silent, save for the hushed murmurs of the gathered wolves. The Blood Moon, once a symbol of violence and chaos, had faded into a pale silver disk, casting a soft glow over the war-torn ground. The weight of prophecy had lifted, but the scars it left behind remained. Broken weapons and the fallen lay scattered across the ground, reminders of the cost of the battle that had reshaped their world.
Layla lay motionless, cradled in her mother’s arms. The once-fragile woman now held her daughter with an unshakable strength, brushing strands of sweat-matted hair from Layla’s pale face. "She used too much," her mother whispered, her voice thick with worry. "Her body wasn't meant to bear this alone."
Ronan knelt beside them, his hands hovering over Layla as if afraid touching
