DECLAN
The rot, they called it. A decay that started in the marrow and ate a wolf from the inside out, stripping away strength, senses, and self until only a hollowed-out shell remained. My mother had been fighting it for two years, and she was losing. Every healer offered the same grim prognosis, cloaked in different words of hollow comfort. She had months. Six, if we were blessed with a miracle we didn't deserve. Not long before the rot
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