AISLYN****

Two years pass the way gentle seasons do, quietly, without announcing themselves, without leaving wreckage behind.

Peace does not arrive like a victory parade. It seeps in slowly. It settles into routines, into shared meals and rebuilt corridors, into mornings where nothing urgent is waiting to be fixed. The merged den has grown into itself now, no longer a fragile experiment but a living thing with a steady pulse. Wolves and Lycans move through the halls without thinking about it ...