The night was a tapestry of gloom and stars, every glimpse of the moon a quiet testament to the everlasting battle of our race. I stood atop the mountain that overlooks the ruined battlefield—a spot where our pack's pride and anguish collided in one searing moment of reckoning. The air smelled blood, pine, and ancient magic; it was cool and weightful. Underneath my skin, the Crescent Mark pulsed as if in sync with my beating heart, a continual reminder of the lineage I held and the fate I was compelled to accept.