The salvation camp, Broonlims, sits tucked into a rough patch of forest where the ground is always a little muddy and the air never quite feels still. Smoke curls from low fires where a half-burnt stew simmers, mixing with the sharp scent of herbs, sweat, and damp fur while voices overlap in constant, restless noise—laughing, arguing, calling out names across the clearing.

Between the legs of passing wolves and shifting crowds, pups dart around like they own the place, tripping over roots and each other without a care in the world. And somewhere deeper in the camp, away from all that chaos, the alpha stays holed up in his den—silent, watchful, brooding like he’s carrying the weight of every decision the pack’s ever made.

Despite the Wristlim’s surprise attack just a few days earlier, the camp is holding together way better than anyone expected. The damage is still there if you look closely—scorched wood, patched-up dens, tired eyes—but it’s drowned out by movement and life.

The streets are packed again, families shoulder-to-shoulder in the lanes, pups weaving through legs like nothing ever happened. There’s food, music, and loud celebration spilling out from every corner, like the whole place is trying to prove it didn’t just survive—it won.