The Keeper of the Dead stood before me. Behind her, thousands of portraits glowed with golden light. The ancestors watching. Waiting. Judging. Each portrait was framed in what looked like aged bronze, though the metal seemed to breathe with the same luminescence that emanated from the figures within. The paintings themselves weren't flat—they had depth, as if each frame contained a small pocket of space where the depicted wolf still existed in some frozen moment of their former life. Some portraits showed wolves in their human forms, others captured them mid-transformation, and still others depicted massive dire wolves with eyes that tracked movement across the cathedral floor.
"Child of the Broken Moon." The Keeper's voice carried through the cathedral, echoing off walls that seemed to absorb and amplify sound in equal measure. "You seek to traverse the Hall of Ancestors. To prove your worthiness. To justify your survival when thousands failed."
Yes.
