Snow fell across the Hollow, quiet and clean. The once-barren land of Kaelin’s exile had become a sanctuary. Where wolves once growled and teeth bared for dominance, now stood gardens fed by geothermal springs and lantern-lit bridges crossing thawed rivers. The Hollow no longer belonged to any one pack—it belonged to all who survived the flame.
Kaelin walked the perimeter of the outer watch post, boots crunching in the frost-dusted gravel. Her cloak was damp with snow. She didn’t care.
"You should rest," Theron’s voice called from behind.
She turned to see him emerging from the mist, his hair damp with melt. He wore his leathers beneath a thick fur mantle, a sword strapped across his back.
"I will," she said. "After I check the southern ridge."
He didn’t argue. Instead, he joined her.
