I stood silently at the edge of the gathering, my black dress fluttering in the autumn breeze. The funeral procession stretched before me like a dark river, pack members dressed in traditional mourning attire filing past Matriarch Genevieve's ornate casket.
My fingers trembled as they clutched the small bouquet of white lilies. I'd chosen them carefully—they were Genevieve's favorites. She'd once told me they reminded her of purity and rebirth, concepts that now seemed impossibly far away.
I took a hesitant step forward, and immediately felt eyes boring into me from all directions. The whispers started, spreading through the crowd like wildfire.
"She shouldn't be here."
"How dare she show her face?"
"It's her fault the Matriarch is dead."
I kept my gaze fixed on the casket, trying to ignore the venomous words. Each step was an effort, my body weighted with grief and exhaustion.
