The days following the Blood Moon battle were a blur of grim routine and fragile hope. The field was cleared, the dead buried with honors that transcended old rivalries. The injured were tended in a sprawling, makeshift infirmary that took over the Stormrider training yards. The air, once thick with the stench of blood and magic, slowly began to clear, replaced by the smells of herbal poultices, woodsmoke, and determined labor.
The Moot of Cleansing was set for the next full moon—a month to grieve, to plan, and to begin the arduous process of healing our scarred territory.
My time was fractured. Mornings were spent with Kaelen and Grynn, drafting the accords for the Moot, establishing neutral grounds, and negotiating the delicate terms of trust between packs who had so recently been at e
