By the time Jason made it back to the heart of the pack lands, the town itself had been transformed into a field hospital.The streets were lined with makeshift cots, some real, some no more than folded blankets laid gently over patches of grass or dirt. Healers moved between them like dancers in a practiced rhythm, hands stained red, eyes sharp with focus. Supplies were scattered but organized: bowls of clean water, strips of cloth, salves, antiseptics.The scent of blood and sweat hung thick in the air, but so too did something else: hope.Wolves who had stood naked before the coming storm were now wrapped in fresh clothes handed out by volunteers. Warriors, bruised and battered, were helped onto benches, bandages winding around ribs, arms in slings, faces stitched with rough but careful hands.Jason walked among them, his steps heavy not with pain, but with the weight of what they had survived. Of what they had lost.And as he scanned the sea of
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