Deep within the impenetrable fortress, entirely protected by Lyra's elite forces, the chaotic, feral energy of the younger children had finally settled into a quiet, grieving routine.
In the sun-drenched grand nursery overlooking the jagged, snow-capped mountains, Iris was sitting cross-legged on the thick, plush rugs.
The young wolf-shifter was acting as the Matriarch.
To her right, little Fedor was curled tightly into a ball, his fiery-red Kitsune tails wrapped completely over his nose. The young fox was incredibly sensitive to the emotional devastation radiating through the family.
Every few minutes, a small, involuntary illusion of a falling autumn leaf or a faint, glowing butterfly would flicker into existence above his head, born from his subconscious distress.
Iris gently reached out, running her hand rhythmically over his soft, red fur until the chaotic illusions entirely dissipated and his breathing slowed.
