Chapter 21

*Ronan*

The sky glows pale gold, still shaking off the blue hush of night. The glade stirs to life with the quiet rhythm of preparation. Boots tread soft paths through dewy moss. Tents are unfastened and carefully packed. Cooking fires doused. Gear checked and double-checked. Even the youngest wolves know the weight of what we begin today.

We’re going home.

We will finally have a place to officially call ours.

Not just to the ruins of the Nightshade stronghold but to a future none of us dared to hope for until now.

I move through the camp in measured strides, issuing low-voiced orders. My scouts assemble quickly, loyal and alert. I motion to three of them—the fastest, most attuned to the land.

"You head out first," I say. "Split the forest into thirds. Clear path. Smell for danger. Use the shadow paths, but don’t engage unless it’s unavoidable. Signal if anything feels off."

They nod, shifting as one into sleek, agile wolves. Then they’re gone, vanishing into the thick trees without a sound.

The Hollowfangs are good like that. Precise. Loyal. Fierce. They followed me into exile without question, and they followed me now into something greater. Into something that feels like purpose. Feels like fate is finally smiling on us.

I pause as I pass through the heart of the camp.

Because the sight before me is incredible.

Because she’s there.

Aria.

The Nightshade heir.

Our queen.

She moves between the tents, not like royalty, but like one of us. Her new black tunic hugs her frame, sturdy and well-fitted, the silver crest of her family shining proudly over her heart. Her dark hair has been braided back, loose and wild, threaded through with tiny forest flowers—not woven by any hand but by the forest itself. It crowns her more beautifully than any forged metal ever could.

She’s laughing with one of the children—a tiny thing named Elsie who has made it her mission to "help the grown-ups." Aria crouches beside her, showing her how to roll the tent canvas without letting it drag in the mud. She speaks softly, encouragingly. When Elsie succeeds, Aria cheers like it’s the greatest thing she’s seen all week.

And the way the child beams...

My chest tightens.

Because this is who she is. This is why she matters so much.

Not just a symbol of power.

Not just the heir of a forgotten throne.

But a leader.

She carries her past like a blade in her boot—always there, never flaunted. She hasn’t demanded loyalty. She’s earned it with every small kindness, every moment she stood with us, not above us. The warriors watch her when they think she isn’t looking. The elders speak of her in hushed tones by the fire, not with awe—with reverence.

Even the trees seem to lean toward her. I love to watch how the forest responds to her and how nature itself respects and treasures her.

I walk toward her slowly, not wanting to disturb the rhythm she’s found.

She sees me smile. A real one. Open and warm.

"Alpha Ronan," she greets with a little nod.

"Lady Aria," I reply, but she wrinkles her nose. I have been playing with different titles with her. The way she reacts makes me laugh every time.

"Don’t start with that. We’ve got too much work to do."

I laugh, low in my chest. "Fair enough."

She rises, brushing dirt from her knees, and I offer her my hand out of habit. She takes it without hesitation.

Even her touch is steady. The hum of power simmering just beneath, ready to come out.

"The scouts are out," I tell her. "If the path is clear, we make for the Nightshade ruins within a week. We can move quietly, stay to the eastern shadows, and travel in tight formation."

She nods, glancing back toward the tents. "Will the elders keep up?"

"They’ll manage. And if not, Corren will pace them."

She grins. "He’ll love that."

I huff a breath. "Corren loves nothing. Except maybe Sera’s stew."

Her eyes dance with amusement. It suits her—this balance of sharpness and softness. There’s still a sadness in her, a weight behind her gaze that speaks of things she hasn’t said aloud.

But she’s carrying it. Not letting it carry her.

And that is strength.

As she turns to help another youngling dismantle a supply tent, I find myself watching again.

And I realize, deep in my bones, that I believe in her.

Not because of her name. Not because of her power.

But because I’ve seen who she is when no one is watching.

When the sun climbs higher, the glade is nearly empty.

The Hollowfangs move like smoke through the trees, their packs loaded with supplies. The witches—three more arrived in the last two days—chant softly, walking the borders, weaving protective wards to hide our departure. Sera moves in a slow arc through the stones, her eyes half-closed, her staff glowing faintly with the rising sun.

Aria is the last to leave the center.

She turns once, looking back at the space where she first trained. Where she first shifted. Where she bled, and cried, and chose to rise. Where everything she thought she knew to be true turned out to be a lie.

I come to stand beside her.

"Are you ready?" I ask.

She doesn’t answer right away.

She rubs at her chest, something I have noticed she does regularly. Like the broken bond still bothers her. I will have to ask Sera about that. It shouldn't still be bothering her.

Then she lifts her chin. Her liquid silver eyes fix on mine.

"I’m not sure I ever will be. But I’m not afraid."

She steps forward, her feet touching the path that will take us to the ruins of her past.

To the place where her family fell.

To the ground that will either accept her... or test her.

I follow.

Because whatever awaits us there begins with her.

And she will not walk alone.