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He held the line until there was nothing left of the man who started it. Keth of Blackthorn is the ward every pack wants-steady, reliable, the one who stays when everyone else runs. In a world where auras measure the soul, his glows the color of someone you can trust. But each battle pushes his frequency higher. Each loss goes ungrieved. Each line is held too long. His commanders see a soldier ascending toward sainthood. His packmates see something else: a friend who stopped laughing, who can't remember his first battle, who calls death acceptable loss. The healers have a name for what he's becoming. They call it a glass bell-beautiful, perfect, resonating at a pitch that will shatter the moment it changes. The Hold calls him a template for the future. His pack calls him gone. A Hertz-Verse Novella

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