The village hummed with a fragile calm in the days following the battle at the ridge. The scentless moved with purpose, their routines sharpened by the knowledge that the Council’s retreat was temporary. Wounds were bandaged, blades were sharpened, and the young awakeners trained harder, their eyes bright with the same silver glow Maya now recognized in herself. The chorus was no longer a whisper—it was a steady pulse, binding them together, a promise of what they could become.
Maya stood at the edge of the training field, watching Tari spar with another young wolf, their movements clumsy but determined. The woman who had been a Hollowed—now called Rhea—was still with the healers, her awakening slow and painful but steady. Maya felt a thread connecting her to Rhea, to Tari, to every scent
