Hope

The burial smoke still clings to my hair.

Even after washing. Even after the wind has shifted and carried the ashes toward the western cliffs.

It lingers.

The meadow is quieter now than it was during the trial. No raised voices. No growls. Just soft crying. The dull thud of earth hitting wood. The creak of leather armor as warriors kneel for the last time before graves carved too soon.

We lost good people.

Pack wolves. Lycan warriors. Young ones who had barely taken their first shift. Elders who had survived three wars only to fall in this one.

My wolf presses against my ribs, restless and grieving. We...