The sky was covered with gray clouds, dense and heavy, as if the entire world knew that today it should not shine.
The air smelled of dry smoke, spilled resin, burned flowers.
A farewell.
An ending.
From the height of the ceremonial clearing, the entire forest seemed to hold its breath. The pines and oaks formed a perfect circle, like guardians watching over their Alpha's final rest. The treetops leaned slightly toward the center, and between the branches filtered the dim light of a sun hidden behind the mist. Not a bird sang. Not a creature dared to break that sacred silence.
In the heart of the clearing, the funeral pyre waited. It had been built with black oak branches and bark impregnated with aromatic oils, following every detail dictated by the ancestral traditions of the Iron Blood Pack: to honor the fallen warrior in fire, because only flames could return an Alpha's essence to the spirit of the forest.
And there lay my father.
The great Ronan.
