2. Torin
TWO
TORIN
The morning mist settles into the valley like a held breath.
I stand on my porch, coffee cooling in hands that dwarf the mug, and watch the fog roll through Stoneheart territory. It curls around the pines, clings to the cabins scattered through the woods, transforms everything familiar into a watercolor blur.
The air tastes of pine and coming rain. Somewhere deeper in the territory, a stream chatters over rocks, the sound carrying clear through the morning quiet.
Woodsmoke rises from a dozen chimneys—the community waking, starting their days, existing in that comfortable rhythm that’s sustained us for generations.
Most people find mist unsettling. I find it honest. It doesn’t pretend to show you everything. Doesn’t demand clarity when clarity isn’t possible. Sometimes the world is soft-edged and uncertain, and there’s peace in accepting that.
Storms are just the sky expressing feelings it cannot contain.
The thought arrives unbidden. Poetic. Useless. I’ll save it for the journal. Where no one can see the ridiculous things my brain produces.
My bear stirs, restless despite the peaceful morning. He’s been like this for weeks—pacing, unsettled, waiting for something neither of us can name. I’ve learned to ignore him. Bears get moody. It passes.
A woodpecker hammers in the distance. Children shriek and laugh down by the stream—cubs roughhousing in half-shifted forms, their delighted growls carrying on the wind.
I can pick out individual voices: Maya, who’s been practicing her partial shift; both of the Childers twins, who can’t seem to exist without chaos; little Dara, who follows Milo everywhere with the dedication of a future mate.
They’ll learn soon enough that not everyone finds their person. That some bears wait and wait and wait, and the pull never comes.
The smell of pine and woodsmoke wraps around me, familiar as my own skin. The mist starts its slow retreat as the sun climbs higher, revealing the paths between cabins, the communal gardens, the life I’ve built here over three decades.
Home.
It should be enough. Most days, it is.
I drain the last of my coffee and head inside to grab my jacket.
The Sleuth Hall needs repairs on the eastern wall—rain damage from last month’s storms—and Garrick has been struggling with a property dispute that’s been festering for weeks.
The kind of tasks that require patience and presence and very little actual thought.
The kind of tasks I’m good at.
The kind of tasks that let me be useful without being seen.
“Elder Torin!”
Two young bears intercept me on the path to the Hall. Finn and Derek, barely into their twenties, still gangly with youth despite shoulders that promise future bulk. They’ve been hovering around me for weeks, full of questions I never have good answers for.
“Morning.” I keep walking. They fall into step beside me.
“We were hoping to ask your advice.” Finn bounces on his heels, all eager energy and terrible impulse control.
Last month, he accidentally shifted during a card game and destroyed his mother’s dining table.
The month before that, he challenged a tree to a fight because he thought it was looking at him wrong.
Youth.
“About?”
“Mates.” Derek’s voice cracks on the word. He’s quieter than Finn, more thoughtful, but just as lost. “How do you know when you’ve found yours?”
I stop walking.
They stop too, looking up at me with earnest expectation. Like I have secret wisdom hidden behind my stoic exterior. Like being old—thirty-two feels ancient to them, apparently—means I’ve figured anything out.
I’ve been alone for six years. Haven’t felt the mate pull once. Every matchmaker in three territories has tried and failed. Grandmother Peach looked at me once, sighed, and muttered about patience before wandering off to meddle with someone else’s destiny.
“I’ll let you know.”
They don’t catch the irony. Just nod solemnly, like I’ve imparted wisdom.
“Thanks, Elder.” Finn claps Derek on the shoulder. “See? He’s thinking about it deeply. That’s wisdom.”
“Very deep.” Derek nods gravely. “You can tell because he takes his time answering.”
“Exactly. That’s how you know someone’s really considered a question.”
They bound off toward the training grounds, full of the certainty that answers exist and adults have them. That one day they’ll feel the pull and everything will make sense and they’ll live happily ever after in matching cabins with mates who understand them perfectly.
I watch them go. Feel the familiar weight of loneliness settle between my shoulders.
Wisdom.
If only.
The melancholy takes hold. Part of me thinks I should do something about it—run through the forest, spar with someone, find a problem and fix it.
I’d been telling myself that for so long, it has stopped feeling like wisdom.
The Protection Network meets in the Stone Circle at The Den—a private back room with literal stone chairs arranged in a ring. The chairs are uncomfortable by design. Keeps meetings short.
The massive fireplace in the main room roars as I pass through, heat washing over me in waves.
Shifters of various types lounge at tables, nursing drinks strong enough to actually affect our metabolisms. A wolf pack occupies one corner, all controlled energy and watchful eyes.
Two panther females play darts near the back, their laughter sharp and knowing.
The Den is neutral ground. Part bar, part community center, part crisis management hub. Disagreements happen here, but they stay here. That’s the rule.
I nod to the bartender—a massive grizzly named Bruno who’s been running this place for forty years—and head for the Stone Circle.
The back room is quieter. The stones absorb sound, which is the point. What’s discussed here doesn’t leave here.
I arrive early, as always. Third from the door, back to the wall, line of sight to both exits. The stone is cold through my jeans. Good.
Caius Sternwolf enters next. Wolf, Pack Alpha, eight years heading the Network. He nods at me. I nod back. That’s the entirety of our friendship.
Rhodes Blackthorn prowls in behind him, lion-proud, already pulling out his notebook. The man documents everything. He once filed a formal report about a door hinge.
Elio Frostheart arrives next, silent as shadow, sliding into his chair with the particular smirk of someone who already knows how this meeting ends. Panthers.
Veren Tahann is already there, technically, in the sense that no one ever actually sees him arrive. He’s simply present, one boot propped on the stone table, methodically working his way through what looks like Rhodes’s confiscated snack drawer.
Aslan isn’t here yet. Unusual. As of two months ago, he’s claimed by a witch.
The magical world is still figuring out what that means.
“Where’s Aslan?” Rhodes flips through his files without looking up. “We have an agenda.”
“Newly mated.” Elio’s smirk deepens. “Give him a moment. He’s probably still untangling himself from his witch.”
“That’s inappropriate.”
“That’s accurate.”
The door opens. Aslan enters, and—
Different.
I’ve known Aslan for years. Watched him patrol, fight, lead. He’s always been intense, focused, carrying the weight of his pride’s expectations like a physical burden.
The man who walks in now moves differently. Lighter. Settled in his own skin in a way he wasn’t before. And the claiming mark on his shoulder—dark against his brown skin, visible above his collar—practically glows with recent magic.
“Sorry I’m late.” He doesn’t sound sorry. He sounds like a man who’s exactly where he wants to be.
Caius waves it off. “Let’s begin. The Warding Line situation.”
The next hour is grim.
“Two new sections of the Line are degrading—different stretches than the ones that sealed after Leire and Aslan’s claiming,” Caius says, dropping a folder on the table. Elio’s intel points at the Preservers. Not attacking witches anymore. Going after the infrastructure directly this time.
“They learned from losing Iskra’s cell—the Preserver cell the Network dismantled two months ago.” Elio leans back in his chair, deceptively casual. “Adapted. Whatever they’re planning now is bigger.”
“My foxes have picked up the same pattern.” Veren doesn’t look up from Rhodes’s snack drawer. “Three sightings near the northern checkpoint this week alone. Whoever’s running things now is more careful than Iskra was. Less flash, more patience.”
“Define ‘more careful.’” Rhodes’s pen hovers over his notebook.
“No dramatic monologues. No convenient overconfidence.” Veren finally abandons the snacks. “It’s almost disappointing. I do miss a good villain speech.”
Rhodes shuffles his files. “We need better information before we can—”
“We need action.” Caius cuts him off. “Patrols doubled. Eyes on anything unusual.”
I listen.
Then Caius shifts topics. “There’s also the matter of Sakura Tempest.”
My attention sharpens.
“The weather one.” Rhodes flips to an already-thick section of his notes. “Another atmospheric disturbance yesterday. Thunderstorm in the middle of Moonthread Square. Third one this month.”
“She’s Leire’s friend, and Torin’s kept an eye on her without incident since she arrived.” Aslan’s voice carries an edge of warning. “Not dangerous. Just struggling with unstable magic.”
“Unstable magic near a weakening Line is worth flagging, however long we’ve been watching her.” Rhodes taps his pen pointedly. “Especially now.”
“She’s not a Preserver. We’d know.” Aslan leans forward. “Leire’s vouched for her from the start.”
“Vouching only goes so far.” Rhodes doesn’t look up from his notes. “That’s hardly—”
“You know I was assigned to watch her.” The words leave my mouth before I’ve fully decided to speak them. Everyone turns to look at me. I rarely say anything unprompted. This is... unusual.
Caius studies me. “Yes, from a distance. Are you volunteering to watch her closely?”
“Yes. And I will before anyone decides she’s a problem.”
“Torin’s right.” Aslan nods, the corner of his mouth doing something I don’t want to examine. “Let him handle it.”