Three moons had passed since the howl over the cliff.
The Alpha's crest was gone from Dylan's shoulder.
He now wore simple leathers, his hands calloused from rebuilding what he once ignored.
At the southern border, he laid stones with farmers.
At the northern outposts, he trained orphaned pups to read maps and wield blades.
He never sat at the high table.
He never entered the Alpha's hall.
He no longer gave orders—only labored beside the ones who had once bowed to him.
One evening, a young healer hesitated as Dylan swept the infirmary floors.
“Sir—" she began, “you don't have to—"
“I do," Dylan replied, not looking up.
He passed through the children's ward, where sick pups clutched herbs and listened to old lullabies—Sophie's lullaby, now taught in every school and sung at every
