The next morning, I woke before dawn despite having barely slept. The pack lands were quiet in a way that felt wrong, heavy, mourning, the weight of loss settling over everything.
Today we would bury our dead.
I dressed in black, as was traditional for funeral rites, and joined Ezra as we walked to the burial grounds at the edge of pack territory. Other wolves were already gathering, all in black, all carrying the same grief on their faces.
Seven graves had been dug. Seven wolves who had woken up yesterday thinking they'll survive the day.
Marcus: a warrior who had been with The Nightshade for fifteen years, leaving behind a mate and two young children.
Sarah: an omega who only joined our pack six months ago, finally finding happiness after escaping her abusive home pack.
David: a young wolf who just turned eighteen, his whole life ahead of him.
Theresa: one of our oldest members, whose heart had given out during the attack.
