Dawn bleeds across the eastern ridge, painting the sky in bruised oranges and golds. I stand at the center of the clearing with the weight of the entire pack behind me, yet all I feel is the hollow ache in my chest where Kali’s absence now lives.
The pyre rises tall and solemn, wrapped in white linen and sacred herbs. Kali lies upon it, peaceful in death as she was fierce in life. My aunt. My father’s sister. The woman who gave everything so my mate and son could live.
Sienna stands beside me, one hand resting protectively over the curve of her belly. Even exhausted from the ritual and the early contractions, she holds herself like a true Luna. The golden thread of our bond pulses steadily between us, warm and alive. Our son kicks hard enough that I feel it through the connection. He is
