At first, it felt like peace.
Not the fragile, hard-won peace Aria had bled for. Not the kind earned through sacrifice and fire and loss. This… this was different. It settled over the land like a velvet shroud—soft, suffocating, and wrong.
The celebration had ended three nights ago.
The fires that once roared in triumph now smoldered into ash. The laughter of united packs had faded into distant memory. Even the warriors, once restless with adrenaline, had returned to their territories with a strange, subdued quietness—as if something unspoken pressed against their throats, stealing their voices.
Aria stood alone on the high cliffs overlooking the valley.
The wind should have been howling.
It always howled here.
Instead, it whispered.
She closed her eyes, letting her senses stretch
