Seasons had passed like pages turning. The compound was no longer a hidden scar in the mountains but a village grown into itself—new halls, rebuilt wards, and patrol lines that no longer carried panic but rhythm. The smell of salt and iron lingered, but now it was layered with cedar smoke, bread baking, and the musk of wolves in fur.
The children were no longer small. Dorian’s height nearly matched Grayson’s, shoulders steady and voice deep, though his quiet nature hadn’t changed. Alaric grew lean and sharp, eyes too quick, wit quicker still, and when he smiled it always looked like he knew more than he should. Hope stood taller than them both, her presence calm, her words weighted. The three other bridge-builders had likewise grown into their roles, each carrying a different resonance of
