The morning after the Festival of Wolves was calm, almost sacred. The silver banners from the night before still fluttered gently in the wind, faint traces of laughter echoing through the quiet clearing where the fires had burned low. The sky was painted in soft shades of gold and rose, and the scent of dew clung to the earth.

Selene stood on the balcony of their fortress, overlooking the valley where the packs had celebrated. The moon had set, leaving behind only the soft shimmer of dawn. Her ...