Dawn crept in slowly, its light shy over the battlefield. Mist clung to the broken ground like a second skin. Blood still soaked the dirt. Torn banners hung limp—the moans of the wounded mixed with the silence of the dead. The pack gathered in quiet groups. Some offered help. Some just held each other.
In the centre stood the healer’s tent. Lanterns flickered inside, golden flames pushing back the cold. The air was thick with the scents of herbs, blood, sweat, and something more potent. Something like hope.
Aria wasn’t supposed to be there.
Mira’s orders had been clear. Stay in bed. Rest. Let others carry the weight. You just gave birth. You’re still healing.
But Aria couldn’t stay still. Every cry outside tore at her. Every report of another death, another wound, pulled her out of the
