"Start with why," the old wolf said, settling deeper into the stone-carved chair. His voice was dry as bone and slow as erosion, but there was steel in it old steel, tempered by winters and war.
Rhett didn't hesitate. "Because the Keep fell inward."
The firelight flickered between them. Shadows clung to the corners of the underground hall like waiting ghosts.
"You burned the old order," the wolf said.
Rhett nodded. "And what was under it screamed."
"Names?"
"Camille."
The old wolf's brow arched slightly.
"She walked out of the cradle fire with memory in her mouth," Rhett said. "And she gave the wolves back their name."
"Memory," the wolf repeated, as if tasting it.
"You know the word," Rhett said. "But you never forgot."
The elder leaned forward. "We forget nothing. Not the Keep's betrayal. Not the silence after the first flare. Not the screams under the old tribunal."
"I don't ask you to forget," Rhett said. "I ask you to stand."
"With her?"
"With the truth."
