Chapter 24
Chapter 24
Rane
I’m hiding beneath the porch because I don’t want to wear the little vest my mother sewed. It’s scratchy and smells like dust and old wood. I can hear the other kids running in the yard, their feet drumming the earth, their laughter sharp and careless. I want to be out there too. But Father said I have to look “presentable” when the visiting human delegates arrives. So I crouch in the shadows instead, tracing the grain of the floorboards with a finger and imagining I can run fast enough to turn into wind. That’s when I hear it.
“Why is he always so quiet?” someone whispers—female, older, not my mother.
“He makes the others nervous,” another replies. “Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t smile.”
“They say he scented blood during their solstice hunt.” A pause. A sharp breath. Then, lower still: “You think there’s something wrong with him?”
“No. Not wrong. Just... different.”
And then, softly, like it’s sacred: “A monster. Just like his father.”
The words curdle in my stomach. I don’t understand all of it, but I understand enough. My fists clench against the dirt. Something stirs low in my chest—hot and sharp and wild. I don’t know what it is yet. It feels like shame. It feels like fury.
It feels like power. I don’t cry. I crawl out from under the porch, straighten my vest, and go find my father. I don’t say a word about what I heard. But that night, when the fire burns low and the grown wolves start drinking, I sit beside him, silent as always, and he puts his heavy hand on my head. He doesn’t look at me.
“They fear what they don’t understand,” he says, voice low.
I don’t ask how he knows. He just squeezes once, and for the first time, I think maybe being different isn’t something to hide. Maybe it’s something to become.
—
I hear the forest before I see it. The low rustle of leaves overhead, the dry snap of a branch underfoot, the chirr of insects singing to dusk. Summer heat hums against my skin, thick and wet, sticking to the back of my neck. My shirt clings to my spine, but I don’t strip it off. Not yet. Father's steps are deliberate as he leads me deeper into the trees. He doesn't speak, and I don’t ask where we’re going. I already know. It’s the same clearing we always come to. The one with the fallen ash tree, scarred by lightning years ago. Half the pack calls it dead; the other half says it’s still standing out of spite. He stops beside it and looks at me. His eyes are sharp tonight—not tired or softened by time. There’s a weight to his silence, but not a hesitation. I brace myself.
“You’re twenty-one,” he says finally, voice steady. “You know what that means.”
I nod. I’ve known since I could form thoughts. Since I could track a rabbit in silence or scent a lie on a stranger. I’ve been prepared for this moment my whole life. And yet—my stomach knots.
“It doesn’t matter how strong you are,” he continues. “It matters how still you can be. How much you can hold. And how much you’re willing to give.”
He takes something from his pocket. A thin leather cord, worn from years of sweat and dirt, threaded with the wolf’s tooth he took from his own father. He doesn’t wait for me to kneel. I do it anyway. The cord slips over my head, warm from his hand, and rests against my chest like it belongs there.
“You are alpha now,” he says. Not you will be. Not you will become. Just you are. And I feel it—like the air shifts, like the woods hush for a breath, and every heartbeat in the pack skips to mine.
—
The younger wolves lower their eyes. The elders nod more slowly. My sister punches my arm like nothing’s changed, but her scent is different—hesitant, cautious. Even she can feel it. In the days that follow, I listen more than I speak. They expect me to give orders. I don’t. Not yet. I walk the border every morning, patrol the hunting grounds at dusk. I watch the way they move. Where they falter. Where they shine. It’s my beta who speaks first. We’re side by side near the ridge where the wind cuts sharpest, watching the valley stretch out in deep greens and charcoal shadows.
“You’re holding back,” he says, his arms crossed tight over his chest. He’s been tense all week, like he’s waiting for something to drop.
“I’m watching,” I answer.
He snorts. “They need direction, not observation.”
I turn to look at him. His mouth is tight, but his eyes are clear. There’s no challenge in him, just worry. That’s why I chose him.
“They’ll have it,” I say. “When it counts.”
His shoulders drop a fraction. Not relaxed, but reassured. “Good. Because it’s coming.”
“What is?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze shifts to the distant edge of the woods. “I don’t know. But it smells wrong out there.”
I inhale, slow and deliberate. Pine, damp bark, soil, deer—but beneath it, something off. Something metallic. Like cold iron buried in rot.
“I know,” I murmur.
He turns toward me fully now. “You’ll protect them?”
“With everything.”
He grips my shoulder once. Firm. A beat longer than usual. “Then I’ll protect you.”
I let the silence sit between us for a long moment. We both know he might not be able to.
—
Nyra
I wake with my heart pounding. The images are still sharp behind my eyes—too vivid, too layered with feeling. The soft give of moss beneath Rane’s feet. The warmth of his father’s hand on his head. The ache in his gut when he overheard the word monster. None of it was mine. And yet… I felt it like it was.
I press a palm against my chest, as if it might calm the thud there. But the pressure doesn’t help. I’m wide awake, breath shallow, skin damp. It didn’t feel like a dream. It felt like a memory. Not one of mine. His. I sit up slowly in the dark, disoriented. The room is quiet—silent, even—but my body still feels coiled, like I’ve carried something back with me. Something not meant to be shared. Something that lived only in him… until now. I don't know how it's possible, but I hope I'll see more.