Winter melted slowly that year, as if the world itself mourned and healed at the same time.
In the northern highlands, where frost once bred only war and prophecy, green returned—soft mosses, pale flowers, and the hum of rivers once muted by blood.
But above all else, there was light.
Seph's light.
It pulsed in the soul lamps scattered across former battlefields, border villages, and quiet dens. A silver beacon, gentle but unrelenting, woven into the very fabric of wolfkind.
And in the heart of it all, he walked.
Leo.
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He traveled without soldiers or banners.
Only a hooded cloak, a worn satchel of lunar shards, and a soul lamp forged from the shard of the celestial gate—the last piece of Seph's physical echo.
By day, he taught border pups how to feel the resonance in their che
