The fire had burned itself to ash, but the scar it left upon the pack was deeper than the scorched earth beneath the pyre. Arin stood with Vale, alive, her skin pale yet faintly gleaming as though touched by the very flame that had refused her.
But her eyes, her eyes were not the same. Once, they had carried a quiet sadness, the shadows of loss and endurance. Now they shimmered with an unnatural intensity, bright and startling. That light unsettled even the bravest wolves, yet behind it, Vale could see something else: fear.
The pack dispersed reluctantly after Vale's command, but not without lingering glances. Each wolf carried away a mixture of awe, dread, and suspicion.
Lyra lingered near the edge of the courtyard, her hands trembling despite herself. She wanted to run from the sight of Arin standing close to Vale, cloaked in an aura no wolf could explain. And yet she could not move. Her heart pounded with a mixture of envy and horror.
