Back beyond the Council rose the eastern peaks, worn long before any pack took shape beneath them. These stones stood when wolf-scribes first scratched tales into bark, silent witnesses already ancient then. Time had pressed down on their ridges while clans still wandered nameless through valleys.
Up high, the stone stood almost straight, a mix of limestone and granite polished bare after ages of storms. Through Ashwood Remnant, what looked like trails didn't really exist - more like guesses, hints on where to step if you moved like a wolf, one whose feet knew grip, whose body trusted motion, whose blood still held climbs older than standing tall.
Up there, nothing felt familiar to Sage. The climb unfolded unlike any before it.
