Chapter 98 : Ghosts

Chapter 98 : Ghosts
San POV

The nightmares come again.

Three weeks of sleep—meditation forms and depleted bodies and minds too preoccupied with the work of building to replay the horrors—and then suddenly I am there again in the Void. All around me, darkness. All around me, people I love disintegrating into ash while shadows move on their own accord, destroy everything in their path.

I wake screaming.

Nadya is there in seconds, Parents moments behind her. The whole family packed into my room while I shake and gasp and try to remember that the war is over, the Void is vanquished, everyone is alive.

“San.” Mama’s hands cup my face. “You’re safe. You’re home. It’s over.”

“It doesn’t feel over.” The words come raw from my throat. “It never feels over. Even when I’m awake, even when I’m building things and pretending to be normal—it’s always there. Waiting. The second I stop moving, it catches up.”

Papa Rafe sits on the edge of my bed. The look in his eyes soft but steady, the air of him unflinching and steady—the same strength of presence that helped me stay grounded in the worst of the battles.

“Tell us.” He says simply. “What you saw. What you’re carrying. All of it.”

So I do.

I tell them about the faces. Every wolf who died because I was in command. Every order I made that ended with a body instead of a victory. I tell them about Kael, who I sent into the anchor assault knowing full well he might not make it out alive. About Marcus Jr., who died while following through on a tactical feint I designed. About the thirteen from the first battle who trusted me with their lives and lost them anyway because of me.

I tell them about the Void whispers that still echo in the back of my mind sometimes. The allure of power. The temptation of never having to doubt, never having to listen, never having to compromise. The insinuation that if I’d only have surrendered sooner, if I’d only let myself trust the dark, if I’d only… maybe it wouldn’t have gotten so out of control. Maybe it could have all been over much sooner.

I tell them about the guilt. The guilt that never fades. The way it feels like a boulder on my chest, making every breath I take feel like it’s stolen from someone who deserves to live more than I do.

When I’m done there is silence in the room.

Nadya’s hand finds mine. Through the bond, she is showing me her ghosts—the lives she took, the fires she started, the screams that still haunt her quiet moments, the fear that she’s more monster than wolf despite the healing work she’s learning.

“We should have discussed this earlier,” Papa Luca says finally. “Should have given you space to process. To heal. Instead of just… assuming time would do that for you.”

“Time does not heal trauma,” Mama says softly. “Time just buries it deeper, and one day something cracks the surface.”

“Then what does?” I ask.

“Talking. Community. Purpose. All the things you’re building here, San. The watchtower. Nadya’s healing. The meditation with Kieran—those are the things that help. But they’re not enough on their own.” She glances at Papa Rafe, some silent message passing between them. “There are other wolves in the pack who specialize in this. Mind-healers. Wolf who work with soldiers who have experienced too much trauma, who have taken too many lives, who are carrying too much weight.”

“You want me to talk to a stranger about my nightmares?”

“I want you to talk to someone who is trained to help. Someone who isn’t one of your parents, who isn’t your siblings, who isn’t so close to you that they can’t see things we can’t because of how close we are.” Mama’s voice is soft but insistent. “You’re seven years old, San. You’ve seen and done and experienced more in that short life than most wolves do in a lifetime. It’s not weakness to need help to process that.”

“It feels like weakness.”

“Everything feels like weakness when you’re trained to have to be strong at all times,” Papa Rafe says. “Kieran trained you to push through, to endure, to never let anyone see weakness in you. That got you through, but it’s killing you now—slowly, from the inside.”

He’s right. I know he’s right. The tension in my muscles. The hypervigilance. The determination to feel nothing that might threaten my control. It’s killing me.

“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll try.”

The next day I meet with a mind-healer. A female named Vera. She is very old—old by pack standards, a silver-haired crone with a quiet, soothing voice, eyes that have looked on centuries of trauma and learned how to just be with it.

She doesn’t make me talk at first. Just sits with me. Lets the silence be long.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” she says eventually. “This first meeting is just about being in the same room. Learning that it’s safe to be here.”

“I don’t know how to feel safe.”

“I know. That’s what we’ll work on.” She offers a smile. “Not fixing you, because you are not broken. Learning your body and mind that it is over, that the danger is over, that vigilance is not required every second, that rest is permitted.”

“How long does that take?”

“As long as it takes. There is no time limit on healing. No milestones to achieve. Just the slow, quiet work of re-learning how to live.”

Slow work. I am learning that everything of any value is slow work. Watchtowers take months. Healing takes years. Becoming human again after having been a weapon—it might take a lifetime.

But I am only seven. I have time.

The nightmares come again that night. But when I wake up, I don’t feel so alone. Vera’s words are in my head—not broken, just learning. I can feel my family around me through the bond. Nadya’s presence beside me is soothing.

The ghosts don’t go away.

But they don’t feel quite so heavy.

And for now, that has to be enough.

“Same time next week?” Vera had asked me when I left.

“Same time next week.” I had agreed.

One session at a time. One nightmare at a time. One breath at a time.

Learning to live.