Sue had grown used to silence, but not the kind people feared — the kind that healed. As the Keeper of the Temple of Returning, she had no crown, no weapon, and yet those who crossed the sacred tree-lined threshold listened when she spoke. The temple wasn’t made of gold or stone, but of breath, wind, and the pulse of the old world. Its purpose was simple: to hold the wounded until they could carry themselves again. Once, long ago, Sue had nearly collapsed beneath her own pain — a childhood without comfort, years of being strong for a mother too broken to stand, a profession that asked her to mend minds while hers frayed quietly. But when the temple chose her, it didn’t ask for perfection. It asked for presence. And Sue gave it everything — her voice, her solitude, her scars. So when the wolf came bleeding into the garden, teeth bared in exhaustion, she didn’t run. She stepped barefoot into the moonlight and knelt beside him.

He wasn’t just a wolf. He was a man, too — tall, broad-shouldered, his form flickering in and out of its shift, muscles trembling with restrained power. He had no pack scent. No sigils. Only ancient blood and golden eyes that looked feral with fear. Fenric. She would learn his name later, when he could speak again. For now, she only offered warmth: warm towels, a clay bowl of broth, and a single phrase she repeated each dusk as he paced near the edge of the temple wards