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"I know what you're thinking," she whispered into Seren's ear. "But none of this is your fault. The Fates drew his path long ago. No force on this earth could stop it. God knows, I tried."

Another presence emerged from the shadows—silent and unmistakable.

The Oracle.

Her robes were rustic, layers of brown and black that blended into the wooden walls as if the forest had stitched them together herself.She moved without sound, like a shadow that had simply chosen to take form. But her shoulders were hunched as if dragged down by the weight of despair.

She placed a hand on Astrid's shoulder.

"She's right," the Oracle whispered. "It's neither Hagan's fault nor yours, child. Draken knew not to go alone. But he chose it anyway. That is onhim.Not on anyone else."

The melody of pitter -patter of rain resonated through the longhouse. The fragrance of first rain on thirsty earth saturated the room.

The land, too, was beginning to weep for a leader who put his tribe before all else.

And then the skies opened.

The torrent began in earnest, hammering the roof and drenching the dry ground outside. Thunder rolled in the distance, and the scent of wet earth rose like a song long forgotten.

Outside the longhouse, the tribe lifted their faces to the rain. No one ran. No one hid.

The drought had broken.

Inside, Draken lay still. His story had come to an end.

But outside, the land was breathing again.

Chapter 72

A sweet, resinous scent drifted through the clearing, where a pyre of fragrant cedar rose high under the pale full moon. Smoke curled upward, soft ribbons of grey dancing above the wood. In the centre of it all lay Draken, wrapped in a plain but lovingly stitched funeral shroud. Drops of blood from Astrid's delicate fingers stained the cloth. The villagers gathered in a wide circle, a hush blanketing their grief.

Jorik, still weak from his injuries, was the first to approach. He walked with a pronounced limp, leaning on a makeshift crutch. The hush deepened as he knelt beside his father. His hand trembled when he reached out to brush Draken's hair from his forehead. Leaning in, he kissed his father's cold cheek.

"Farewell, father," Jorik whispered hoarsely. His tears soaked into the linen cloth, turning the white threads darker.

Hagan came next. He was a pillar of quiet strength as he strode forward, but his stoic composure cracked the moment he took in the sight of Draken's still face. He bent to embrace the body, pressing his forehead against the edge of the shroud. Although he made no sound, tears wet the cloth, adding to Jorik's.

Seren followed. She placed her palm gently on Draken's cheek, recalling the day they met outside the crone's hut. She had been frightened, uncertain of her powers—uncertain of everything, really. Draken had been unexpectedly kind then, offering a guiding presence she had not realized she needed. As those memories flooded back, her throat tightened.

"You were a second father to me. I wish...I wish it hadn't ended this way." she murmured, voice trembling. "Godspeed."

She stepped aside so that a young priestess could lay a milky moonstone on Draken's forehead, the last tribute to the Moon Goddess. As the day dawned, when the embers cooled, his ashes would be scattered in the Sacred Pool. Many claimed the pool's sparkling stones were fragments of the ancestors' souls, each unique hue symbolizing a life once lived. A part of the ancestors lingering to protect the tribe.

The flames soon crackled to life, their glow illuminating every tear-streaked face as the pyre transformed from a cold silence into a blazing pillar of orange and gold. Astrid leaned heavily on a blank-faced Renna, grief holding them both in its tight fist. In that flickering light, Seren's attention drifted to the edge of the gathering, where she saw someone standing just beyond the shifting shadows.

Lia.

Gone was the proud confidence she usually wore like a second skin. Her posture sagged, arms cradling her own body as though trying to hold in her grief. Tears streaked her cheeks, catching faintly in the firelight. Seren followed Lia's line of sight and saw that she was staring at Dain, who stood with his head bowed, listening to soft prayers by the Elders. Something in Lia's gaze—longing, sorrow, regret as she gazed at Dain—drew Seren closer.

Quietly, she slipped away from the circle of mourners, edging around the pyre until she was within arm's length of Lia. Flames crackled behind them, drowning out the murmur of voices. Yet inthat instant, Seren sensed something else—a whispered torrent of emotion that felt simultaneously outside her body and yet intimately close: sorrow, regret, agony, longing.

Surprise rippled through Seren; it was coming from Lia. For so long, Lia had shown no trace of a wolf spirit, no sign of the telepathic bond that the shifter families shared. Yet here it was, a raw and powerful presence, broadcasting her thoughts in waves that nobody else seemed to notice.

Lia looked up, startled to find Seren at her side. Her eyes widened with the shock of being discovered.

"You..." Seren's words caught in her throat. She felt that strange new presence swirling in the air between them, intangible yet undeniable. "You have your wolf."

Their gazes locked. For a moment, everything else—the roar of the flames, the hushed chanting, the sea of grief that filled the clearing—faded into the background. Only Lia's ragged breath and wide, terrified eyes remained, revealing more to Seren than Lia had ever intended to share.