They descended from the Whitebone Range in silence.
The snow didn't fall anymore. It simply hovered—like breath held too long.
Caelina walked ahead, her steps deliberate, her face unreadable.
Elara followed at her side, not pressing, not asking.
Behind them, Zela carried a pouch of silver memory dust from the basin. She said nothing. But her flame dimmed slightly, as if unsure what to burn next.
They had uncovered truth.
But truth had not made them lighter.
It had made them lonelier.
They made camp beneath a jagged ledge just past dusk.
The wind was still.
The wolves in the nearby woods didn't howl.
Even the moon seemed to pause.
Elara built the fire with her own hands—no servants, no command. Just flint, stone, breath.
She glanced at Caelina, who sat cross-legged, sharpening her dagger with quiet precision.
The silver streaks along her arms pulsed faintly—still alive.
"You haven't spoken since we left," Elara said softly.
"I'm trying not to break."
"Even the drum must be silent before it finds its next beat."
Elara crossed the fire to her and crouched.
"Tell me what you saw in the name."
Caelina's hand stilled.
"It was her name," she said. "The girl. The first howl."
"And?"
"She didn't ask for it. She wasn't chosen. She was… given. Like a lamb left in a cage full of foxes."
She looked up.
"That's what we are, Elara. Wolves born from pity. Not pride."
"No."
Elara's voice cut clean through the air.
"We are not born from pity. We are what rose from it."
Caelina met her gaze—and something flickered behind her eyes. Grief. Hope. Guilt. Love.
"Then why does my power feel like a shackle?"
Elara smiled.
"Because no one ever taught us to wear it with joy."
That night, as the fire burned low and Zela slept a short distance away, Caelina stirred.
She found Elara still awake, staring at the stars.
"Are you afraid?" Caelina asked.
"Always," Elara replied. "But never of you."
Caelina sat beside her.
"You should be."
"You've already saved me twice."
"And nearly killed myself doing it."
Elara turned, took Caelina's hand—warm, calloused, still trembling.
"When I was younger," Elara said, "I believed love made you soft. Slowed your blade. Now I know—it sharpens the edge."
Caelina blinked.
"Is this…?"
"Me telling you," Elara said, "that if we don't learn to love what we are—curse, crown, and all—then we'll always be someone else's story."
A pause.
Then Caelina leaned into her. Not for warmth. For grounding.
Elara didn't pull away.
They sat there, shoulder to shoulder.
Sisters not by blood, but by burden.
By choice.
"When the lioness lies beside the thunder, even the stars stay awake."
In the distance, a howl finally rose.
But it wasn't a call to war.
It was a longing.
And Caelina, eyes half-closed, whispered:
"Maybe the first girl didn't die screaming.
Maybe she became the song."