The night did not fall gently over Regina, for it gathered instead, thickening above the city like a storm that did not belong to wind or cloud, but to something deeper, something older that pressed downward with quiet intent.
The streets had emptied, the echoes of earlier chaos fading into a tense stillness, every corner holding the memory of what had occurred, every shadow stretching longer than it should beneath a sky that refused to settle.
At the heart of it, the pack began to gather, drawn not by command alone but by instinct, by the unspoken understanding that separation was no longer survival but vulnerability.
Elara stood at the center of the courtyard, her posture composed, her breathing steady, though the faint glow beneath her skin had not fully faded, the mark still alive, still listening.
"…we fight," she said.
Her voice was calm.
It carried.
Not loud.
But certain.
