DAVE
Ashes and Blood
Five AM darkness presses against us like physical weight as twelve hundred pack members gather around the pyre we built through the night. The lake behind Howling Pines reflects fire that hasn't been lit yet, water holding memory of what's coming. Henry and Joseph lie wrapped in white cloth on platforms of oak and ash, their bodies small against wood that Roland and his bears hauled from the deep forest.
The puppies sleep in their covered stroller wagon, synchronized breathing the only peaceful sound in air thick with grief. Kat stands beside me in the November cold, her hand in mine the only thing keeping the Prime from erupting through my skin. Through our bond, I feel her rage matching mine—copper-penny fury that tastes like blood not yet spilled.
Joseph's mothe
