Moonrise painted the pack territory in shades of silver and deep blue. The air was crisp, charged with the unspoken tension of imminent departure. In the quiet hour before we left, I found myself drawn not to the armory or the supplies being packed, but to the resting house.
The six fallen warriors lay on stone biers, washed and dressed in ceremonial robes, their faces peaceful in the flickering candlelight. The scent of sage and moonflower filled the small, sacred space. I stood in the doorway, the weight of their deaths a physical pressure on my chest.
“They died for a pack, for a family,” a low voice said from behind me. My father stepped into the soft light, his features etched with grief and resolve. “Not for a cause they didn’t understand. They were the shield. Now you must be the
