At dawn, a shape lingered beyond the fire’s reach. Low, grey, moving between trunks with the patience of hunger. A wolf. Not carrion-picker nor hound, but broad in the shoulder, with eyes burning like memory itself. Storm whispered the name of a brother lost, though he knew no man stood before him. The beast turned, and Storm followed into oaks older than crosses, to a cairn marked by the sigil of the Gold Ring. A promise, waiting to be claimed.