Winter came early that year.
The cold settled deep into Nightfall territory, frosting the trees in silver and silencing the forest beneath a heavy sky. Wolves moved quietly now, voices softer, as if instinct warned them something sacred was nearing its end.
Lucien felt it too.
Not death.
Not yet.
But the narrowing.
Time no longer stretched ahead of him like an open field. It felt like a corridor.
Short.
Finite.
And strangely… peaceful.
He sat beside the hearth inside the pack house, watching flames curl and snap. His hands rested loosely over his knees. The tremor in his left hand was stronger now. He no longer tried to hide it.
Across the room, younger wolves argued softly over patrol routes. They glanced at him occasionally not with fear.
With reverence.
He had not led them
