The morning after the battle dawned slowly as if the sun itself hesitated to rise over the scarred forest. The once-lush clearing that had been the Blackwood pack’s sanctuary was now littered with the remnants of the previous night’s fight. Ash and broken branches covered the ground, and the faint scent of blood lingered in the cool air.
Lyla sat near the edge of the clearing, her legs folded beneath her as she stared at the charred remnants of a fallen tree. Her body ached with exhaustion, and the forest’s whispers were quieter now, like a distant melody she could barely hear. She pressed her hand to her chest, where the surge of the forest’s power still pulsed faintly, but it felt different and diminished.
She had fought with everything she had, had even stood beside the silver wolf to
