The packhouse was a tomb.
No one spoke as the dead were laid out in the great hall, the scent of blood thick in the air. The warriors who survived stood in silence, their heads bowed. Wolves that had once filled these walls with laughter now lay still, their bodies wrapped in linen, waiting for the pyre.
Aria sat on the edge of the bed, her whole body aching, watching the glow of torches through her window. Every flicker of light outside reminded her of the battle—the way her power had raged out of control, the way it had burned through friend and foe alike.
Killian entered quietly. His shirt was soaked with blood—not his, but his warriors’. His face was carved from stone, his jaw tight. He carried the weight of every death in his shoulders.
“They’re ready for the rites,” he said softl
