Chapter 60. The Howl That Remains

The fire crackled low, its licking tongues curling around damp logs with the stubborn patience of late autumn. Each log yielded grudgingly to the heat, fat hissing where moisture met flame, and the smoke curled upward in lazy, twisting spirals that blurred the stars overhead. The coals glowed like half-buried rubies beneath a veil of gray ash, their dim light painting the surrounding pines in deep blues and inky shadows. Occasionally, a spark would wrench itself free, a single point of light drifting on the cold wind before vanishing among the towering trunks, whose boughs whispered secrets far older than memory. The wind itself seemed alive, sliding between trunks as if seeking stories it had not yet learned, carrying the damp scent of moss and fallen needles into the night.

The child sat close to the flame, no older than eight or nine, wrapped in a cloak far too large. The fabric was a patchwork of tattered scraps—a square of red-and-white banner cloth, once proud, now fraye