Morning arrived quietly upon the hill where the fallen wolves were buried, and the pale mist that rolled slowly through the grass clung to the earth like a fragile veil, while the stone markers stood in solemn rows that seemed to whisper the names of warriors whose voices would never again echo through the training grounds.
Elara walked slowly between the graves.
Her boots brushed softly against the damp grass.
The wind carried the faint scent of pine and cold earth.
Behind her Alessandro followed in silence.
Neither of them spoke for several long moments.
Because this place did not belong to conversation.
It belonged to memory.
Elara stopped before one of the stones.
Two lines carved deep.
A name.
A date.
A life reduced to quiet letters in stone.
She crouched slowly and brushed the mist from the marker with the sleeve of her coat.
"Hmm."
The small sound escaped her.
Her fingers touched the carved letters.
"Ouch."
The word came quietly.
Not from pain.
