The name came before the title ever did.
Elowen didn’t ask for it. She didn’t demand it. She simply existed in the pack long enough for the wolves to begin saying it softly among themselves.
The little princess.
At first, it was said with fond amusement. Then with familiarity. And finally—with certainty.
Elowen walked the inner ring as if she’d always belonged there, her small hand often clasped in Caleb’s when she chose to stay close, or tucked confidently behind her back when she wandered on her own. She listened when elders spoke. She offered comfort without being told. She remembered names, faces, losses.
When a healer’s apprentice broke down one afternoon after a failed poultice, it was Elowen who sat beside her and said, very seriously, “It’s okay to be sad. Sad doesn’t mean you
