Chapter 9
It was a wretched night, cold and wet, with mud thick beneath every step. Not the sort Kaldrek would ever choose for prowling Wrenford’s perimeter while the rest of the packs slept. Even so, there was comfort in knowing his people finally had a roof above them after so many weeks in the wild.
The roofs themselves were nothing remarkable.
Most topped old sheds and weather-worn cottages left sagging by years of neglect.
Still, the village offered something they had not known in far too long: a place to stop.
A place with fresh vegetables in the market and a small tavern whose ale had disappeared almost as soon as they arrived.
Holden, unsurprisingly, had made for it first and wasted no time flirting with the female from Glaciermaw, the serious one.
Pretty enough, Kaldrek supposed, though little else stood out about her.
He could hardly fault Holden for trying.
The journey had been unrelenting since the moment they crossed paths with Evelyne and Alaric in the Mokkvyrn Forest. Terror felt too small a word for what Vaelora had unleashed. He still saw her turning on Evelyne, Ty’s death, and the burning wreck of Cindermoor beneath the claws of her Noskari.
Chaos was the only constant. Even Kaldrek had welcomed the burn of ale when the chance came, if only to dull the memories.
Now he stalked through the storm, circling the fragile village while his pack rested.
Lightning tore across the sky in harsh bursts, thunder answering in heavy booms. Worry pressed on him as hard as the wind at his shoulders.
The cottages groaned, their beams rattling with every gust. Rain slashed sideways, soaking him through, while the clouds above smothered all trace of stars and moonlight.
Then the hail came. Kaldrek planted his feet and held fast against the storm’s pull. Alpha or not, even he felt its force in every staggering gust. This was going to be a long fucking night.
Hail struck his shoulders like thrown stones, each blow a sharp reminder of how little stood between his people and the storm. He adjusted his footing against the wind and scanned the black horizon.
And then—
A low voice slipped through the storm’s roar.
Such strength, squandered on leading wolves when you were meant for more.
Kaldrek’s head snapped up. No one stood near him. Slowly, he turned, his hand tightening around the hilt at his side.
We feel your hunger. It lives in your blood. The magic still sleeps within you.
He knew that darkness. He had felt it before. It had been a while since it last brushed against him, weaker now, as though Vaelora had been the source that fed it. Yet it lingered tonight, circling him all the same, and that alone set his jaw tight.
It remembers your blood, Alpha. The source is waiting for you.
Its whisper brushed his ear, intimate as a lover’s breath. Kaldrek spun, and his gaze caught on a figure standing just beyond the line of cottages.
Alaric.
He stood in the mud, hair plastered to his face, leathers soaked through.
His eyes were unfocused, as though he had only just woken to find himself standing in the downpour.
Then, in the space of a blink, clarity returned.
Confusion flashed across his features, and he staggered back, rubbing his arms against the cold.
“Alaric?” Kaldrek called over the wind, striding toward him. “What in the gods’ names are you doing out here?”
“I… I don’t know,” Alaric muttered. He looked dazed, as though dragged from a dream.
Kaldrek frowned, the whispers still needling at the edges of his mind. He shoved them aside and focused on getting Alaric back under shelter. The man could not be left out here with darkness prowling all around them.
“Get back inside,” he ordered. “This storm is cruel enough, and you took a hard blow today.” Kaldrek had seen the way Thorne brought Alaric down during training that morning, and it was likely the reason he now stood here wandering like a sleepwalker.
“Storm?” Alaric whispered. “A storm,” he repeated, quieter now, as though testing the words against some thought only he could hear. Kaldrek watched as he slowly tipped his head back toward the sky, then lowered his gaze to his own fingers, studying them. “It’s me. Kaldrek, can you hear—?”
Alaric jolted, his body locking stiff. He cleared his throat, blinked hard, then turned and walked back toward the cottages with an odd, unnatural steadiness, as though his body had decided on its own to return to bed and left him no choice but to follow.
Kaldrek watched him go, one brow lifting. The man needed rest, that much was plain. Yet something about the interaction felt off.
After a moment, Kaldrek forced his attention back to the night.
The darkness had retreated, thinned now to little more than a whisper, but he meant to track it all the same.
He would not allow shadows to take root in their lives.
Stripping off his clothes, he shifted and resumed circling the perimeter on four paws.
***
Cillian had barely slept for weeks, and last night had been no exception. The wind and hail hammering the rickety windows wasn’t the kind of symphony that lulled anyone to sleep—least of all someone who’d been recently kidnapped and dragged through blood-soaked nightmares.
The exhaustion had settled deep into his bones today.
He had skipped training once more, despite Evelyne’s soft attempts to coax him outside.
It was not that he lacked the strength to fight.
He simply could not bear the thought of becoming a weapon again.
For now, the cottage and its quiet felt like the safest place he could be.
Evelyne had brought him breakfast herself, pausing in the doorway with worry plain in her eyes.
He had given her the truth of it: a roof above him and a bed beneath him felt more like home than anything he had known in a very long time, and he wanted to hold on to that a little longer.
She had answered with a small, understanding smile before padding back outside to join the others.
But exhaustion was not the only thing wearing on him.
He could not shake the memory of Alaric’s face from that morning, nor the meager few words they had shared before dawn.
Alaric had barely spoken at all. In all their weeks of travel, Cillian had never seen him so vacant, so painfully absent from himself.
Whatever had been preying on the man’s soul had finally taken hold.
Cillian had not endured Vaelora’s horrors in the same way Alaric had, yet he knew all too well what it meant to be split open by something monstrous.
In some ways, his own ordeal may have been worse, though the thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Pain was not meant to be measured against another’s. Trauma was no contest.
Still, something in Alaric’s stare had stayed with him. The emptiness of it. The slow, dull weight in his voice. He had seen that look on Alaric more than once now, that numb, distant vacancy. Cillian knew it because he had worn it himself.
His stomach twisted.
He lurched up from the narrow bed, heart pounding, his eyes flying to the setting sun beyond the window. He had sat with these thoughts all damn day. How had he not seen it sooner? He should have known. He should have known.
There was no room left for guilt now. He needed to find Evelyne.