Third Person POV
Moonstone mourned for three days.
Not because tradition demanded it—though it did—but because no one could bear to stop.
The first day was silence. Bells tolled at dawn and dusk, their low, resonant notes carrying through the mountains and into the valleys beyond.
The packhouse doors were thrown open, black banners draped from ancient stone. Wolves and humans alike moved through the halls with bowed heads and muted voices, as if speaking too loudly might fracture something still painfully fragile.
The second day was remembrance. Stories were told in small clusters and long vigils, spoken softly over shared meals and burning candles.
Warriors spoke of Alaric’s tactical brilliance, of battles won because he had seen what others could not. Elders spoke
