The faction came apart the way a thing comes apart when its keystone is pulled.
Vale had been the hand holding the threads, and without him the resistance had no organizer, no forged banner, no plan. The lesser wolves who'd fed it the ones skimming grain, running whispers, waiting for the old order had no order left to wait for. I didn't hunt them. That was a deliberate choice, and it was the last piece of shattering the mirror. A tyrant, having caught the leader, would have purged the followers, dragged every wolf who'd ever sympathized into the cells to be sure. That was Damien's Crescent Hollow: safety through fear, loyalty through terror.
I did the opposite. I let it be known, openly, that the faction was broken and its leader judged, and that any wolf who'd been drawn into it out of
