A small crowd came together when the group met late. That last evening drew them out under shared purpose.
Darkness came first. Fires followed after. This was never about battle plans or tactics. Just a meeting of sorts. Wolves arrived until there were five hundred and sixty-five. One pulled out a drum. Then flutes joined. Later, a scratched-up violin began to play.
Birds began singing down in the low land.
No tunes of war. No chants from fights long past. Just the ancient melodies. The ones carried by wolves across generations, back when packs stayed whole, before boundaries split them, before trust started fading. Tunes on racing beneath cold moonlight. On finding another soul, raising young, and how it felt like fire inside to be part of something real. Melodies soaked in missing those gone, aching through silence, yet never letting go no matter what came.
