For a breath she hesitated... pride and suspicion tangled in her throat. Then rage pushed her hand forward. She knelt on the trampled earth, fingers fumbling at the seam. The chain creaked above, the bonfire slumped toward sleep, and for a second the forest held its breath with her.
Her fingers closed on something cold and small. She drew it out. It was a disc of tarnished bronze, thumb-sized and heavy with years.... an old campaign medallion, its edge nicked, its surface worn by handling. In the center, a raised sigil: a crowned wolf's head, teeth bared, circled by a wreath of laurel. Around the rim, a string of numbers and letters stamped in a neat, official hand. Someone had scrubbed it until the shine was gone, but not enough to erase the mark.
