When the Abbey at Friars’ Gate fell to ruin and the first festival was called to bring life back to the land, the Wolves came south—not in wagons or parades, but on foot, at twilight, cloaked and quiet. They built no walls, lit no fires. They kept to the edges of the fields and watched. Their motto is spoken only once, when the pack meets beneath the pale moon: “We are the quiet between the cries. The teeth in the dark. The hand that does not falter.”