Chapter 36
Several days had passed since the Glaciermaw pack joined their journey. Obren hadn’t stopped watching Evelyne, his hazel eyes lingering on her far too long, far too often. And every time, Kaldrek noticed. But he never said a word.
Since that heated moment at camp, he’d kept his distance. During training, he was focused, precise, the perfect alpha, but his gaze never met hers for more than a passing second. He spoke to others. He gave commands. Yet somehow, he moved around her like she no longer existed.
What had she done this time?
Evelyne wondered if defying his order to stay out of sight had been the breaking point.
He should’ve known that she never thoroughly listened.
And honestly, what did it matter? Obren would have seen her eventually.
For heaven’s sake, he and his pack were traveling with them.
It wasn’t as if her presence that morning had changed anything.
Still, she was growing weary of attempting to decipher Kaldrek’s moods.
One moment, he was present, his touch lingering just long enough to leave her breathless and burning.
The next, he looked at her like she was a problem he didn’t have time to solve.
Maybe it was for the best that they hadn’t kissed.
She could only imagine how much worse things would be if they had.
The rain had finally passed, giving way to warm, golden days.
The light soaked into her skin, deepening its tone with a soft, sun-kissed glow.
She found comfort in the warmth and the quiet peace it brought.
If she was honest with herself, she also didn’t mind how it brought out the strength and beauty in the men around her.
If she had counted right, her birthday was just two days away.
The thought nearly made her laugh. Twenty-three and still unmarried.
Courtship and finding a suitable husband felt absurd now.
The life she was once meant to live had become a distant memory, buried beneath the harsh weight of survival. None of that mattered anymore.
What mattered was reaching Cillian.
Each day that passed pulled the knot in her chest tighter. Every night, she whispered the same quiet plea: Please, whatever god is watching him, keep him safe. Keep him whole.
She had to find him. And soon.
Her father’s men still hadn’t caught up, though she doubted they could keep pace with a wolf pack and horses moving at full speed.
According to Alaric, they were about a day from reaching Cindermoor. They’d likely stay a night or two, take time to rest, eat proper food, and recover. Holden had also mentioned another moon ritual was approaching. Had it been that long since the last one?
“The ones in Cindermoor are even better,” he had said. “Way more intense and exhilarating. Unlike the ones deep in the forest, the ritual is held just outside the city, so no humans are caught in the frenzy of the shift. And when we run, we make for the treelines.”
They continued their journey across the vast expanse of the Sunmere Stretch, riding until the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting the sky in warm amber tones.
When night settled in, they made camp, and Evelyne slipped into her familiar rhythm: eating, washing away the day’s dust, and poring over Cillian’s book by firelight.
Then there was the map.
She studied it repeatedly, tracing their route and checking that their path remained clear.
Alaric hadn’t asked for it since he’d told her to keep it.
He had a strange knack for remembering the land, and he seemed to trust that she’d speak up if anything felt wrong or if darkness crept too close.
It had become a quiet ritual she repeated each night after the pack settled, the scouts took their posts, and the camp fell into silence.
Only when her thoughts finally slowed would she let herself rest, just for a few hours.
Afterward, she would rise, train, and continue the journey.
Cindermoor was waiting.
***
As they crested the final hill, Cindermoor came into view, nestled between the sweeping plains of the Sunmere Stretch and the thick belt of trees that bordered the town like a protective frame.
The scent of fresh earth mingled with woodsmoke, carried on a warm evening breeze that stirred faint echoes of conversation and the distant clatter of a busy marketplace.
Alaric sat up straighter in his saddle, rolling his shoulders as the familiar shape of civilization unfolded before them.
Cindermoor didn’t have the luxury of the southern noble estates—no shiny marble, tall spires, or perfect courtyards.
Yet it pulsed with something more meaningful.
It breathed with life, with a sense of home.
The streets were wide and well-worn, shaped by the passage of countless carts and travelers.
People moved through them with ease. Merchants called out their prices, children darted between stalls with sticky fingers and mischievous smiles, and laughter rose above the din like birdsong at dusk.
Timber-framed homes and lodges lined the streets, their thatched roofs sloping gently, windows glowing in the fading light.
Smoke curled from chimneys, carrying the scent of roasting meat, fresh bread, and spiced cider, making Alaric’s stomach stir.
The stables sat near the town’s center, filled with sturdy horses bred for long travel.
Nearby, blacksmiths worked their forges, the ring of hammer on metal echoing through the streets.
But the taverns were what made Cindermoor truly unforgettable.
They stood large and inviting, their windows glowing with golden light that spilled onto the cobbled streets as evening lanterns flickered to life.
Music drifted from within, a lively mix of fiddle, drum, and voices raised in song.
And the people, with their open joy and easy laughter, brought comfort that made the town feel like somewhere one could truly belong.
As the Ironwolf and Glaciermaw packs rode into town, a ripple of recognition passed through the crowd. Smiles broke out, hands lifted in greeting, and a few eager souls stepped forward to clasp arms with the shifters, as though welcoming home old friends rather than fearsome warriors.
“Damn, I almost forgot how much I liked this place,” Holden muttered beside him, already eyeing the nearest tavern with clear intent.
Alaric let out a slow breath, taking it all in—the simple yet enduring charm of a town that thrived not through wealth or politics, but through community bonds.
After weeks of exhaustion, tension, and battle-hardened silence, Cindermoor felt like an exhale.
An older woman stepped out from one of the stone-fronted shops, brushing flour onto a well-worn apron.
Her silver-streaked hair was tied in a neat bun, and her sharp eyes swept over the group with a flicker of familiarity.
Before Alaric could fully register what was happening, she walked straight up to Kaldrek and wrapped him in a firm embrace.
Alaric blinked.
The Ironwolf alpha—the man who so often seemed incapable of affection—stood frozen, arms rigid as though the very idea of softness stunned him. But then, in a breath, the tension seemed to ease from his shoulders, and a genuine smile spread across his face.
Heidara was the next to rush forward, her excitement unrestrained as she wrapped her arms around the woman’s middle like a child greeting a long-lost relative. Alaric wondered if they were family, or something just shy of it.
The woman pulled back, cupping Heidara’s face between her flour-dusted hands before flicking her gaze toward Kaldrek. “You’re far too thin,” she huffed. “And I don’t even want to know how much sleep you’ve lost.”
Kaldrek let out a quiet, rare laugh. “And yet, I live.”
“Barely,” she shot back.
One by one, the older woman greeted each pack member as if welcoming long-lost kin. It was clear now that this town was more than just a stop along the way. It was home to many of them.
“Come, then,” she said, dusting off her apron. “We have plenty of rooms between my husband’s tavern and the lodges. If more are needed, I’ll speak with the other families. You’ll all be taken care of.”
She turned, leading them through the streets and toward the tavern beside her bakery. At the entrance to the tavern, a stout man with broad shoulders and a white beard leaned against the door frame, his arms crossed.
“Took you long enough,” he called out, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips.
The older woman rolled her eyes. “Don’t be rude, Garek.”
“I ain’t rude, Eda. I’m stating facts,” he said, pushing off the frame and clapping Kaldrek on the shoulder, then nodding toward the others. “Good to see you lot in one piece.”
Turning toward the tavern full of patrons, he lifted his voice.
“Clear out! We’ve got packs needing a proper meal and a place to sit!”
A typical tavern owner might have been met with groans or complaints, but here, the response was immediate and eager.
People rose from their seats, drinks and meals barely touched, offering bows or friendly waves before filing out with a surprising amount of cheer.
This wasn’t a begrudging favor. This town welcomed wolves as its own.
The pack members stepped inside, filling the space until the tables could hold no more. Some took seats at the bar, and others found corners to settle into. Plenty remained outside, mingling with the townspeople.
Alaric sat near the hearth, settling beside Evelyne, Heidara, and Holden.
He had just started to unwind when Obren slid into the remaining chair beside Evelyne.
Heidara exhaled a dramatic sigh, rolling her eyes as if she had expected this nonsense.
On the other hand, Holden stiffened, his fingers tapping idly against the table as if he were restraining himself from saying something… impolite.