The early morning after our pact was renewed came in bright, frail gold. The air in Fangreach's courtyard was cold, as sharp as hope and frost. The survivors—combatants from four packs —acted with quiet determination, shoring up wards and caring for the injured, smelting fresh weapons out of pieces broken off Luna's Mirror.
I faced the direction of the rising sun, and saw how little was left- on that clear morning- of light along Summit behind its eastern buildings. By the time dawn came, Kael was gone again, walking the walls with Dawncleaver slung on his back. Mara was resting in the healers wing, wrapped in furs and wards on her way to recovery. Dorian read from his codex by candlelight singing to centuries old runes I barely understood.
