Chapter 32 They Need Us
Bram
It’s been three days since Lyra, Jorin, and I tore down those rogues to keep the boy and his mother alive. We trailed them afterward, just long enough to be certain no more threats stalked the edges of Song Pack’s woods. Once they were safe enough, we slipped back into the trees, found where we’d stashed our clothes, and took our human forms again. Jorin stayed with us only a little while longer before vanishing the way he always does, drawn to the forest and to the solitude he claims suits him.
Now it’s just me and Lyra, moving like ghosts through a territory that isn’t ours. Still, I can’t shake the memory of that boy’s small frame pressed against his mother and the calm that washed over their faces as they realized we’d saved them instead of turning on them.
Lyra says fate is keeping us here on Song Pack lands, and I’m starting to believe her.
We’ve been sleeping in the empty yellow house that sits forgotten at the edge of their village. All the houses and buildings smell of dust and wood rot, but at least they keep the rain off our backs. Tonight, as I push open the crooked door of the one we’ve claimed, the scent of something new prickles at my nose. Paper and ink, and it’s not ours.
“Bram,” Lyra mutters, already catching it, too. She crosses the room in three long strides and crouches beside the fireplace. Tucked under a large rock she finds a folded scrap of paper.
She pulls it free, careful not to tear it, and I read over her shoulder. The handwriting is small and neat.
“Come to the meeting house at moonrise. You’ll be safe there.”
My gut tightens. Safe. Who can promise that in times like these?
“They know this is the house we’ve chosen,” Lyra murmurs. There’s no fear in her voice, just certainty.
I fold the note and slide it into my pocket. “It could be a trap. It could be Running River patrols or guards, luring us into an ambush.”
“Or it could be an invitation,” she says. Her eyes are locked on mine. “Reed and his mother saw what we did and know that we saved them. Maybe they’ve decided not all outcasts are criminals. And do you really think Running River would be here without us sensing them or scenting them?”
I want to agree with her, but these are precarious times. I want to believe the boy’s mother meant every word of thanks she gave us before walking away. But I’ve lived long enough to know gratitude doesn’t always hold when a pack feels threatened. We could be jumped by either of two different packs. Anything could happen in that meeting house.
“We’ll go,” I say at last, the words scraping out of me reluctantly. “But we go cautiously. I think we should get there early, and watch them roll in, rather than getting blindsided.”
Lyra smiles. “Good idea. I knew I kept you around for something.”
The hours crawl until sunset. We keep to the shadows, moving through the trees that line the narrow path toward the heart of Song Pack territory. Every sound sets my hackles rising: the hoot of an owl, the rustle of a grasshopper, even the crack of a branch under my boot. But Lyra walks with her head high, as if daring the forest to test her.
When we reach the edge of the village, the meeting house stands quiet, its windows dark. The last streaks of light catch on the wood, burning orange before fading into gray. No voices carry on the air, abd nothing stirs inside. There’s just the stillness of a place waiting to be filled.
I pause under the cover of the trees. “Last chance to turn back.”
Lyra threads her fingers through mine. “Fate brought us here. If we don’t speak to Song Pack, we’ll never know if we can help them, and I think they might be able to help us, too.”
Her faith is a blade, sharp enough to cut through the doubt coiling in my chest. I squeeze her hand once then lead her out of the treeline and into the open.
We slide through the unlocked door just as the last rim of sunlight fades. Lyra and I move without a sound, pressing ourselves against the wall, behind a thick velvet curtain in the corner of the platform. From this spot, we can peek out and see through both windows on either side of the building, giving us a full view of anyone approaching. My muscles tighten with anxiety, and every sense is alert for the first sign of danger.
The silence stretches until the moon begins to rise. Then, faint at first, the shuffle of feet outside. Lanterns bob past the windows, casting soft, trembling pools of light that ripple across the ground. The door creaks, and the first figures enter.
They’re not warriors.
An elderly woman, stooped and thin, carries a baby on her hip. Another clutches a nearly empty basket of fruit. Younger children stumble in behind them, their clothes patched and threadbare. There’s no clang of weapons, no sharp commands, just the quiet whimpers of the hungry—and the occasional whispered word between the oldest women.
onI let myself notice everything—the weariness etched into their faces, the cautious way they move, uncertain hope in their eyes. These aren’t enemies. They’re survivors, clinging to what little remains.
A few more people file in, mostly women, the elderly, and many children, each settling onto benches. They exchange hushed words about what’s left, who’s gone, what struggles have passed through their lives this week. Then Reed steps in, holding his mother’s hand, both of them scanning the room before sitting on a bench near the front. There’s not a shred of ill will among them, only the need for guidance, safety, and help.
Lyra looks up at me, and across the bond, she says, “They need us.”
I let that thought sink in and feel the tension in my chest ease. We’re not here to fight. We’re here to lead.