†Noca's POV†
The cold breeze of the night hit me first as I reached the pack's ceremonial grounds. It sliced through the fur-lined cloak on my shoulders, sending a shiver crawling down my spine. Not because of the cold, but because of what awaited me beyond the torches.
The entire pack square was alive with sound drums, chants and wild laughter. The air reeked of victory and freshly spilled blood, thick with the primal scent of werewolves celebrating survival. The second stage of the Luna contest had just ended and though one life was lost, the people rejoiced as if death itself had joined the dance.
I stopped for a moment at the edge of the clearing, watching the chaos unfold. The firelight painted faces in gold and shadow, and the rhythm of the drums echoed deep into my bones. My people danced, uncaring that one of their own would never return from the dead. Perhaps that was our curse, how quickly we learned to celebrate despite grief.
