Logan's POV
I stand with my pack around the lake, my mother's hand clenched in mine. The cold nips at my skin, but I don't hold her for warmth. I reach for her because she needs it—for the way her fingers tremble, for the way her breath hitches every time she looks at the pyre.
As the sun sets, the pack begins to hum.
There are no lyrics in this dirge. No words to misinterpret. It's all sound and feeling. A shared rhythm made of stomps and soft-throated cooing—meant to mimic the march of a pack, the mourning of wolves. It begins at the back of the crowd and rolls forward like fog, low and heavy. The ground shakes beneath us in quiet pulses as feet strike the soil in unison.
It's not loud like the yipping Elder Reva did last night. It doesn't have to be. It's old. Older than words.
A wind picks up, rolling off the water and threading its fingers through the tall pines behind us. Ma holds my hand tighter.
