Week three started with something that felt almost like hope.
Not the bright, burning hope I had before the war wore us all down to nothing.
This was quieter.
More fragile.
It came from watching four hundred and thirty-seven wolves choose to stay when they could have run.
From seeing them train together, eat together, live together, without that tired drag at every step, like they were hauling the weight of their own doubts.
They were trying.
That had to mean something.
At dawn, I stood at the training field, watching Thorne run the defensive drills.
The air still had winter's bite, cold enough to see your breath.
My fingers, gripping the wooden rail, were numb. But I didn't move.
Every minute I stood here, watching the pack get ready for a fight that might kill them all,
