The first spring after the Hollow Moon thawed slowly, as if the world itself feared to wake. Snow melted in hesitant rivulets, threading down the cliffs like veins returning to a frozen heart. The air still smelled of ash and frost, but beneath it—faint, trembling—was the scent of renewal.
From the highest ridge of the Silverfang Valley, Damian watched the mist curl away from the forests below. The world looked quieter now. Too quiet. But silence, he'd learned, wasn't always peace. Sometimes it was just grief catching its breath.
He adjusted the cloak on his shoulders, the fur lining stiff from the cold. "Report," he said without turning.
Luka stepped forward, his voice cautious. "The northern borders are clear. No sightings for twelve days. The scouts say the veil between realms has stabilized."
"And the settlements?"
"They're rebuilding, Alpha. Slowly. The humans from Durnholme have sent supplies. They say it's tribute."
