The weeks after the battle were a time of healing.
Shadowfang mourned its dead and celebrated its survival. The Red Claw alliance had been shattered—their forces scattered, their will broken. Scouts reported that they had retreated deep into their own territories, licking their wounds and nursing their pride. The mountains were quiet. The passes were empty. For the first time in years, there was true peace.
Elara worked tirelessly in the healing hut, her gift flowing through her day after day. She moved from bed to bed, her hands glowing, her voice gentle. She saved some. She lost others. Each death was a weight on her heart, but she kept going. She had to.
Caleb helped with the rebuilding, organizing the warriors into work crews. New huts rose where old ones had burned. Fresh graves we
