The moon came up fat and clean, the kind of white that made the frost on the grass look like spilled salt. We gathered in the elder grove, stones like old teeth around the clearing, lanterns hooded low so the night could do most of the work. Wolves stood shoulder to shoulder, silent without being solemn. It felt like breath held on purpose. Melinda stepped to the center with her stick. She didn’t raise her voice; the grove carried it for her.
“First moon since chains broke,” she said. “First moon for those who haven’t yet learned what their bones can do. We honor the old ways…pain as passage, not punishment. Those who shift tonight are ours. We hold them. We do not let go,” a small line of new wolves stood to her left. Five of them, two boys trying not to look scared, a woman with a scar
