The forest was quiet now, but the silence was heavy, almost suffocating. Ashes from the battle still drifted lazily in the air, settling on broken branches, scorched earth, and the fallen bodies of warriors who had fought bravely. The stench of smoke and corrupted blood lingered, mixing with the scent of damp soil and pine.
Seemus stood near the edge of the clearing, eyes scanning the devastation. His fur, usually immaculate, was streaked with soot and dirt.
His hands were curled into fists, but no amount of strength could erase the weight of what had been lost. Around him, the surviving werewolves moved silently, some kneeling beside the bodies of their fallen comrades, others standing as motionless statues, staring into the distance.
Their howls were absent tonight—replaced by quiet whimpers, murmurs, and the occasional soft growl of grief.
Aamir walked slowly among them, his presence both a comfort and a reminder of the harsh truth.
