As preparations began, I took a solitary walk through the camp, my mind troubled by the weight of recent events. The night was cool, and the stars shone overhead, indifferent witnesses to our suffering. I found myself near the edge of the encampment, where the flickering light of a single lantern danced on a weathered stone. Closing my eyes, I pushed my palm to that stone and felt the roughness under my fingers.
The voices of the past softly murmured in that instant—words of caution, of hope, of the strength that had formerly defined our people. I recalled the voice of my father and the silent oaths of the first wolves, the ties created in fire and blood that had once brought us together against all chances.
"Legacy is not a burden, but a promise," a recollection kept running in my head. "Carried in your heart, it is the strength of our ancestors just ready to be released."
