Chapter 28 Ruin

Chapter 28 Ruin
Kaelen

At morning’s first light, we shift and set out on our journey around the neighborhood. We travel light, as Dravens always do when visiting neighboring packs. When you’re a wolf, you don’t need much of anything that you can’t find as you go. We are a tight-knit pack of twelve wolves who carry authority through our reputation and power, regardless of our numbers.

My father runs at the front of the convoy, silent and composed, the dark woods seeming to part around us as if they recognize who moves through them. I run just behind him. This is what I’ve been trained for since childhood: observe, listen, learn the dynamics of power. A future Alpha is not simply given leadership. He becomes it.

The normality of this morning doesn’t negate the heaviness in my chest as we journey south, away from the Draven Pack lands. Perhaps it’s the quiet awareness that every mile we put between ourselves and home is another mile placed between Sierra and me. It’s as if my heart is rubber-banded to hers, stretched thin but unbroken, aching just beneath my ribs. The bond hums alongside the pull of the band around my heart.

The first pack we visit, later in the morning, sits just south of us, on our side of the eastern river. Their territory is smaller than ours but strategically valuable. Once we’ve shifted and dressed, their Alpha greets my father with practiced deference, though the tension in his shoulders betrays the imbalance between them.

Darian Draven does not visit other packs as a guest. He comes as leverage–power, authority, irrefutability. When a Draven enters the land, all heads turn and bow in his direction. The Draven name is legendary. Every pack knows who we are and what we’re known for.

Inside the largest building in the center of the territory, a timber hall lit by smoky lanterns leads us to where our meeting will take place. The room is softly lit, with a large wooden table made from a slice of a tree trunk taking up the majority of the room, with large brown leather chairs encircling it. Each member of both packs takes their places. I sit at my father’s right hand, the same position I hold in our council chamber, signifying that I am the incoming Alpha.

The discussion begins with amiable trade agreements. It does not stay there long.

Their pack has fallen behind on a supply arrangement we negotiated last winter—grain shipments meant to support our northern territories’ allies. Weather, the Alpha explains carefully, damaged their harvest. Pack members were injured trying to salvage what they could.

My father listens without expression. Then, he asks a single question. “Do you believe hardship dissolves obligation?” The room stills. I have heard my father use that tone before. It’s not anger. It’s something colder, simpler, a primal arousal.

The Milano Pack Alpha stammers in response, taken aback by my father's apathy. What started as negotiations shifts quickly after that–Milano’s explanation becomes an apology, which even more quickly becomes a concession. It’s exactly how it unfolds in every confrontation with my father, and his father before him, and so on. It’s essentially in the Draven Handbook for Heirs.

Milano promises to pay his debt in territory lines. But that isn’t consolation for Darian Draven. He has a reputation to uphold, and it isn’t one supported or protected by territory lines.

My role here is observation. Before long, it will be me leading these ‘meetings,’ and the expectation is clear. I must embody who Darian Draven is. I must become him.

For the sake of the alliance, my father commands a minimal consequence for the Milano Pack, but it certainly isn’t enjoyable for the Alpha to endure. Assuredly, he won’t fall short of obligation moving forward.

Later that evening, after the traditional dinner hosted by the Milano Pack, I walk beside my father down the hall that leads to our arrangements for the night. Faint voices and a dim light spill out of a room ahead. The whispers sound of frustration and hysteria.

My father meets my eyes and strongly states, “Strength prevents opposition. Weakness invites it.”



After a restless night at the Milano packhouse, the morning comes, and we depart.

Moving north toward the mountain ridge, we head toward the next pack’s territory that lies deep in the mountains. As we journey forward, my mind can’t help but drift back to Sierra—the rubber band around my heart yearning to be back on Draven land, with her hand in mine.

Eventually, we arrive at the Archua Pack lands. Their Alpha is younger, recently elevated after the death of his predecessor. He greets my father with confidence that borders on arrogance, and for a moment, I wonder if he understands exactly who he is challenging. The new Alpha introduces himself, Sky Archua, son of the recently deceased Simon Archua.

Sky leads us to an outdoor area behind their main packhouse, covered by a pergola of tree branches, twigs, and various plant forms.

Their dispute concerns territory—an overlapping hunting ground along a ridge that has belonged to the Dravens for nearly a century. Archua claims that shifting migration patterns justify reconsidering those boundaries, excusing the mistake by claiming an alliance.

My father lets him speak. Then he stands and slaps the fuck out of the man before him. The violence that follows is swift and deliberate. It is a demonstration of Draven power, a lesson in hierarchy to the new Alpha.

The younger Alpha lunges in retaliation, pride outweighing caution. My father meets him halfway–his movements economical, almost effortless. Within seconds, Archua is on the floor, his arm twisted behind his back, blood bright against the wooden planks.

No one intervenes.

This is how Alphas settle disputes. Still, my chest tightens once again.

When my father addresses the bystanders, the message is clear. “The territory will remain ours.”

The members of the Archua Pack bow their heads in grudging submission.

What choice do they have?



After our night in Archua territory, exhaustion settles into my bones, and my chest continues to ache with longing.

The bond between Sierra and me remains distant but present, a quiet pull threading through every idle moment. When conversation through the mind-link lapses, or the road stretches silent beneath us, my thoughts drift back to the Draven estate, to the gardens, the warmth of her breath against mine in the forest.

I realize, with uncomfortable clarity, that I have spent more time thinking about her during these negotiations than about any lesson my father intended for me to learn.

We’ve made a few stops for brief check-ins with neighboring ally packs throughout the day, finally arriving at our destination for the night. Tonight’s meeting takes place in a neutral lodge shared by several minor packs. No disputes wait for us here—only alliances to maintain. Because these are smaller packs, most other prominent packs don’t bother to align with them–especially at the expense of Draven contention.

Still, the conversations circle familiar themes–loyalty, territory, strength. But mostly, Draven power. My father thrives in these spaces. His confidence fills the room, his words shaping the course of discussions long before anyone realizes they’ve been persuaded. I don’t have the same gift for swindling, manipulating, or threatening in a way that leaves only respect–and maybe also fear–in its wake. When it’s my turn to participate in the meetings, I force myself to embody his essence and hope that no one notices what I lack.

This is the future he expects for me. This is the future he expects from me–upholding the strength of the Draven Pack. Every fiber of my existence is destined to command, to lead the most powerful Wolf Pack in our region, if not beyond. My father’s expectation is that I yield the same control in every room, exactly as he does: strategic distance from anything that could weaken the pack’s position.

And Sierra… by every measure my father respects… would be considered exactly that. Therefore, a weakness.

The realization settles heavily in my chest. I’ve known all this time that Sierra is an impossible choice, that my father defines her as a weakness in me, but the weight of the realization in this moment feels clearer than it ever has. Being away from the estate, away from Sierra, and walking in the shoes I am supposed to fill, I know in the deepest depths of me that my father is wrong.

Sierra is not a weakness, an impossible option, or the downfall of the Draven Pack.

She is the first thing in years that has felt undeniably right.



The run back toward the estate begins before dawn. Dew clings to the forest floor as we travel, the road winding familiarly beneath our paws. The estate lies only a few hours ahead now.

For the first time since we left, the bond stirs more strongly. Distance is closing. I breathe slowly, letting the sensation settle rather than fighting it.

My father believes distance will weaken this connection, that time and responsibility will redirect my focus toward the future he has planned. But all these nights away from Sierra have clarified something I did not fully understand before.

The bond is not distraction. It is direction. And when we return to the estate, I will no longer pretend uncertainty where there is none.

Whatever consequences follow—with my father, with the pack, with the expectations placed upon me—I will face them.