The mourning fire burned low in the center of the courtyard.
Thin smoke drifted upward like quiet prayers no one truly believed would reach the sky.
Gray clouds covered the afternoon sun while the pack gathered slowly around the stone circle where names of the fallen were carved into dark slabs that carried the memory of every war the wolves had survived across generations, and though silence ruled the gathering there remained a sharp tension moving quietly through the crowd because grief rarely walked alone without dragging anger behind it.
Elara stood near the edge of the circle.
Her black coat rested loosely across her shoulders while the faint wind tugged at loose strands of hair that brushed softly against her cheek, and although her expression remained calm the weight of dozens of watching eyes pressed heavily upon her presence like invisible hands demanding explanation for losses that no victory could truly justify.
The fire crackled faintly.
Someone whispered a prayer.
