The morning after the Run, the forest felt different.
Not quieter. Not louder. Simply claimed.
Wolves understand what paper cannot record. They had seen us move in rhythm beneath the full moon. They had heard the three-part howl roll across the valley and echo back without fracture.
That memory would linger longer than any proclamation issued from the council chamber.
But tradition demands more than memory.
It demands marking.
Montenegro’s borders stretch wide—mountain ridges in the north, river bends in the east, dense forest to the south, open valleys toward the west. Each section carries history. Some of it is ancient. Some of it soaked in blood.
If we were to cement the next era, we would not do it from behind stone walls.
We would walk it.
Derek organized the route. Jax expa
