Chapter 34 What They Really Think

Chapter 34 What They Really Think
Bram

I sit on the edge of the clearing, letting the fall sunset settle on my shoulders. Around the camp, the Song Pack people move through their routines. The children chase one another between the tents, women tend to small chores, and men repair tools or check supplies. 

The smoke from the central fire curls upward into the bright blue sky, carrying the rich scent of elk cooking over the flames. It’s been a week since Lyra and I first spoke with Song Pack in their meeting house, and already the rhythm of life here feels different. Lyra kneels beside me at the fire, carefully turning the meat as we work, sparks dancing around her face.

She glances up at me, a smile tugging at her lips. “They’re starting to really trust us,” she says.

I nod, letting my gaze wander. She’s right. In the past seven days, we’ve eaten with them, hunted for them, even helped repair shelters. The people here are resilient. Hardened by loss, yes, but still capable of kindness.

It doesn’t take long to see why they’ve lost so much. Most of the men died in the war. The remaining ones are patching things together, venturing into neighboring territories to trade, gather supplies, or work for wages so the village can survive and maybe even start to thrive again. Right now, there are maybe three hundred men away on supply runs or working away from home. That’s thrree hundred men this pack could use right now, and they’re all out there, leaving the families and elders to keep the village intact.

Lyra sighs, tossing another stick onto the fire. “I didn’t realize how many people they lost. Or how many of them survived.”

“I know,” I answer. “Every day we’re here, we see the holes in the village, the people who carry too much, and yet they keep going.”

I think of the small details I’ve learned this week: the way the children laugh despite missing their fathers, the way the older women organize the forges and larders, the way the remaining men talk quietly about territories and trade, always calculating, always planning. These people are survivors.

Lyra pulls the elk from the spit. I help her slice the meat, passing portions to the families gathered around. Serena and Reed move among the crowd, making sure everyone gets their share. Laughter and murmured thanks drift over the fire as Song Pack eats, the warmth and smell of cooked meat filling the night.

After the last of the elk is served, Lyra and I settle near the dying embers, watching the pack finish their meal. “Tomorrow,” I say, “we should head back to the burned woods, survey what’s left behind, and check for patrols.”

She nods, resting her head on my shoulder. “We’ll leave at dawn,” she murmurs, and for a while, neither of us speak, the peaceful night enveloping us as we drift toward sleep.

When morning comes, we rise before the sun, careful not to wake anyone. We move quietly, side by side, ready to head back to the scorched forest, the weight of the task ahead keeping our steps deliberate.

Dawn presses against the treeline as Lyra and I slip from the shadows, her fur glinting silver in the pale light. The air is foggy, carrying the faint tang of smoke that lingers long after the fire Lyra set weeks ago with Jorin.

The aftermath is grim. Charred trees lean mangled, their blackened trunks splintered and raw. On the ground, the bodies of wolves lie bloated and burned, their flesh darkened and fur mostly gone, stiffened by days of heat and sun. The smell of decay and ash hangs thick in the air, a stark reminder of the fire’s reach. I grit my teeth, the sight of Kaelen’s warriors like this making the blood in my veins run cold. Lyra presses close, her body tense, ears flicking as she surveys the scene.

We move silently through the debris, counting the bodies. The ground is scarred and blackened, splintered wood and ash crunching under our paws. Time has passed, but the forest still feels haunted, the warmth of the sun making the desolation even harsher.

Lyra murmurs beside me, her voice tight. “It’s worse than I imagined. I had no idea we’d taken out so many of them.”

“It’s the truth of war,” I say. “No one forgets this. Weeks in the sun haven’t softened it.”

We pause near the ridge, our eyes scanning the trees for signs of Running River patrols. Every rustle of leaves sets us on alert. I want to hear their movements, catch their conversation, understand their numbers, and keep Lyra safe.

We move silently through the underbrush, our paws pressing into the dry forest floor. Lyra’s coat brushes mine as we follow the path back. We keep our heads low, and our noses twitch at every scent. 

“Patrols,” Lyra says clearly through the mind-link. “They’re upwind of us. Stay low—they can’t smell us.”

I flatten against the ground, letting the wind carry our scent away. Her words are a thread of caution weaving through my mind. We pause behind a clump of blackened trees, listening.

Voices drift, rough, carried by the breeze.

“Everyone’s blaming someone else for Arica’s death,” one of them says. “Not Lyra. She didn’t—nobody really thinks she did any more.”

The other’s tone is sharp, annoyed. “Yeah, and everyone wishes Tessa would stop obeying Alpha Kaelen so blindly. Every order, every word—she’ll do anything. It’s getting humiliating. I mean that thing with the see-through wedding dress? “

“Yeah, that was odd and off-putting. I mean, she’s a beautiful woman, but let’s cover her up on her wedding day for Goddess’s sake.” 

“Kaelen’s all about power moves, bro. But one of these days, Tessa is going to have her fill of him, and she’s going to explode and finally admit that she knows it wasn’t Lyra that killed Arica.” 

“You think so?” 

Lyra’s ears twitch. “I knew there was no way Tessa really thought I killed Arica,” she sends through the mind-link. “But then… who did?”