I wake to the soft hum of night around the pack house, the moon spilling silver across the forest floor. The air is cool against my skin, brushing through the hair still damp with sweat from the day’s training. For a moment, I lie there, chest tight, lungs slow, trying to remember why I feel so restless, so raw. Then I realize: it’s not exhaustion. It’s the weight of questions I’ve carried for weeks, questions I’ve been too afraid to voice. And tonight, I’m not going to stay silent. I rise, careful not to wake anyone else inside, and step onto the porch. The forest stretches out before me, dark and alive. Somewhere among the trees, the faint rustle of nocturnal life stirs. I spot a figure sitting quietly near the edge of the clearing. My mother. She hasn’t said much since the battle days ago, only whispers of reassurance, cryptic smiles, and a distance I could never understand—until now. I approach cautiously. “Mom,” I say softly, unsure if my voice will carry. She turns her
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