The sky wept the way the pack could not.
A slow, relentless rain fell over Blackwood, turning the training grounds into dark, glistening earth sacred soil now marked for mourning. Thousands of wolves stood in absolute silence, their heads bowed, their grief pressed tight behind clenched jaws and trembling hands. No one dared speak. No one dared move.
At the center of the field lay Rowan.
He was dressed not in royal armor, not in the ceremonial black of the Alpha King, but in simple warrior leathers the kind he had worn before crowns, before politics, before the weight of an entire realm bent his spine. A sword rested across his chest, its blade cracked from the final battle. His hands were folded over it, as if even in death he refused to release his duty.
Ivy stood at the foot of the
