Three days had passed since Morgana's death.
Three days of mourning, of healing, of watching. The camp had settled into a rhythm of grief, quiet and careful, as if everyone were walking on eggshells around the fresh wound of loss. Lilith remained at the edge of camp, speaking to no one, eating little, sleeping less. She sat on the same fallen log at the same time every day, staring at the same patch of forest, her face an unreadable mask.
The hybrids gave her space, understanding isolation better than most. The wolves watched warily, their instincts warning them that grief could turn to rage without warning. The vampires, understanding ancient grief better than any of the others, left offerings of food and drink at the edge of her solitary space. Small bowls of blood. Fresh bread. A flas
