The Forgotten Pulse of the Bond

The quiet was worse than the battle.

It draped over the Callahan estate like a wet shroud, heavy and suffocating. The courtyard reeked of blood and smoke. The northern wall still burned in places, thin columns of dark smoke spiraling into the bruised sky. The fog had begun to retreat, exposing the carnage beneath it.

Bodies littered the ground, both theirs and the Elder’s.

Magnolia stood amid the wreckage, the wind tugging at her damp hair as she scanned the field. She could taste metal in the air.

The fires hissed where blood splattered hot stone.

And yet, in all this chaos, it was the silence that unnerved her most. The unnatural stillness that followed when something vital had been lost.

Rhett limped forward beside her, one hand pressed against his side where blood seeped through torn fabric. His face was pale, jaw tight against the pain, but his eyes remained sharp as ever.

"They’ve withdrawn," Beckett reported quietly, appearing at their flank. His armor was smeared with grime and ash, his breathing labored. "For now."

"For now," Rhett repeated hollowly.

Beckett glanced around at the wounded wolves being gathered into makeshift triage camps along the inner courtyard. "We held the estate. Barely."

"And we lost Camille," Magnolia whispered.