The war had found a rhythm. A brutal, b****y cadence of attack and counter-attack, of ground lost at dusk and retaken at dawn. For two months, I lived and breathed this rhythm on the northern front. The Regent’s Oath had fused with my soul, turning the pack’s collective pain into a sharp, clarifying instrument. I no longer felt my own weariness, only the shifting tides of our strength. We had pushed the Dark Moon Cult back past the Deadwood, securing a hard-won stalemate. It was not victory, but it was a reprieve.
It was time to cleanse the wounds within.
I returned to the Great Hall unannounced. The scent of stale incense, fear, and political maneuvering still clung to the stone walls, a stark contrast to the clean, cold air of the front. As I walked the central aisle, my boots echoing
