The first year, Lucien barely noticed.
Mortality felt like a distant concept something philosophical. He still trained daily. Still patrolled the borders. Still commanded respect when he entered a room.
But he tired more easily.
He healed more slowly.
And the silver in his hair no longer hid itself.
Two year later
The younger wolves began beating him in sparring matches.
Not because he lacked skill.
But because stamina no longer lived endlessly inside his bones.
Lucien accepted each loss without anger.
“Again,” he would say calmly, rising from the ground.
They followed him not because he was the strongest anymore
But because he did not break.
From the veil, Seraphine watched.
She could not step into the world that night. The moon was wrong too thin, too distant.
So she st
