Chapter 1 - Wayne
The highly anticipated day had finally arrived. It had been eighteen long months since Wayne had left his pack behind to embark on the mission of settling a new land in a new world. Through all the trials and tribulations of the past year and a half on Kurivon, the thought of this day had kept him going. Now, his pack was finally joining him, marking the beginning of a new and thrilling chapter in their lives together. As Wayne stood by the portal with the other Alphas, ready to welcome his pack to their new homes, he couldn't help but feel a surreal sense of excitement. Bryson, the charismatic Alpha, broke the silence with his playful remark. "No longer a lone wolf, huh?" Wayne met Bryson's dancing eyes and smiled. Kurivon, with its tropical island setting, was never quiet. The constant cries of birds mingled with the soothing sound of waves crashing against the beach, a constant reminder of their proximity to the ocean. It would be an adjustment for his pack, who were used to a much smaller body of water back home. But this was their new home now. "I bet you can't wait to see your son again," Bryson continued. Wayne's friend had recently become a father himself and seemed to be consumed by thoughts of his newborn daughter. "It's still hard to believe we only found out about your family a week ago. Can't wait to discover all your secrets." Benjamin, the leader responsible for maintaining peace between packs, chimed in with disapproval. "Bryson, let's not pry too much." The tensions between Bryson's and Darion's packs had been a significant challenge until they were united. This unity had paved the way for Wayne's pack to join them on Kurivon. Homes had been prepared, and the community was eager for the next phase of settlement. Bryson, despite his claim not to pry, couldn't resist. "I'm not prying, Wayne. I just think you've always had an air of mystery around you. I'm looking forward to unraveling some of it." Wayne responded calmly, his leadership style not inclined towards sharing personal details. "The details of my personal life didn't seem relevant to our work here." Bryson persisted, teasingly. "Understatement of the century. It took me six months of nonstop talking about my daughter before you mentioned you had a son all along. We could have been bonding, Wayne. We could have had a dad club." Benjamin interjected with a chuckle, lightening the atmosphere. "It's not too late for that." The stress they had all experienced since arriving on Kurivon made Benjamin's laughter a welcome sound. The demonic presence on the island was the reason for their settlement. Wayne was determined to ensure a smooth arrival and settlement for his pack, knowing the tremendous responsibility they held. Wayne refocused his attention on the conversation, pulling himself away from the portal. "Richard is a little older than the twins and Ilya. We'll be celebrating his eighth birthday in a few weeks." Benjamin smiled warmly. "I'm looking forward to meeting him and your mate." Wayne's expression remained still as he froze momentarily. "Ah," he replied casually, as if discussing the weather. "Richard's mother Emma is one of my closest friends, but we aren't mates." He avoided looking at Bryson, knowing his friend's curiosity would be piqued. "Her mate tragically lost his life years ago while protecting a young child from a demon. Richard was born a few weeks later." Lyrie, Bryson's soulmate, empathized with Wayne's experience. "Raising a child after such a devastating loss must have been challenging." Wayne nodded, briefly acknowledging the difficult journey they had all been through. "The pack rallied around her. In the end, the tragedy made us all stronger.""Is Richard aware?" Vivian, Benjamin's mate, asked pragmatically. She was likely wondering if they should keep this information from the child who would soon be joining them on the island. Wayne nodded curtly. "He knows that his mother and I are close friends rather than soulmates," Wayne replied. "And he understands that his biological father passed away shortly before he was born." "That must have been a difficult conversation to have with a kid," Benjamin said, looking troubled. "Our pack doesn't believe in keeping secrets," Wayne explained, feeling a familiar weight press on his heart. "We face difficult subjects together, using our intellect to overcome any unpleasant emotions that may arise. It was an important lesson for Richard to learn, even at such a young age. It will only make him stronger." "This explains a lot about you," Bryson chimed in, earning a disapproving elbow from Lyrie. "I mean, you're ice cold, Wayne. And I mean that as a compliment. I've seen you remain calm even when faced with a demon's claw at your throat." "It runs in the family," Wayne replied, redirecting his gaze back to the portal, hoping the other Alphas would take the hint that he didn't want to delve deeper into his past. The story of how he became a father was one he preferred not to tell, even when omitting the most difficult parts, as he had just done. It still caused an ache in his heart that was hard to suppress. Right now, he had enough to think about without adding those ancient worries to his plate. For instance, his pack was running late. They had expected the portal to activate half an hour ago, signaling their arrival. Darion's pack had arrived promptly when they had come through. Could it be that the Council was having trouble with the portal again? As if in response to his thoughts, there was a peculiar crackle in the air, a static hum that indicated the presence of magic. The assembled Alphas turned their attention to the portal, and Wayne held his breath as he watched the deeply carved runes on the rock begin to glow. When they first arrived on the island, the demons had tried everything to damage the portal, but their dark magic proved futile against the ancient force that had created this magical passageway between worlds. Halforst had been home to wolves for generations, but the portal predated even their oldest legends. And now, finally, it was bringing his family back to him. The wolves emerged from the portal in small groups, the air shimmering and warping above the deceptively ordinary rocky surface before revealing the outlines of figures, then solidifying into the figures themselves. Each group swiftly moved out of the way as the next one came through, and Wayne couldn't help but smile as he saw his pack starting to gather on the other side. He was excited to welcome them to their new home, but he knew better than to interfere with the magic of the portal. Councilors on the other end would be working diligently to ensure the safe passage of such a large group, and he didn't want to risk making the transition any more dangerous by recklessly barging into the magical field. However, his smile faded when he noticed something was amiss. The bright light of the portal began to dim, and the crackle in the air subsided. Based on his estimation, the group huddled near the portal consisted of only half of his pack, if that—barely two dozen wolves awaited him. Where were the others? Were the Councilors taking a break? Darion's entire pack had come through together, and when Wayne glanced at Vivian, he could see a faint frown on her face, indicating that this was unusual. But there was no denying that the portal had been deactivated, and Wayne concealed his confusion as he stepped forward to greet his pack. It was then that he noticed the injuries. Almost every wolf he saw was bandaged in some way—some with their arms in slings, others with bandaged legs leaning on their packmates for support. "Alpha Wayne, we are relieved to see you," his oldest advisor's voice rang out. A smile tugged at Wayne's lips as he reached out to embrace the old wolf who approached from the front of the group. Langston had been an advisor to the Alphas for longer than Wayne had been alive, his wisdom and experience unmatched, just like his skills as a lorekeeper. He had been there for Wayne since childhood, first as his father's advisor, and then as his own when Wayne assumed the role of Alpha almost a decade ago. But in all that time, Wayne had rarely seen such sadness etched on the old man's face. "Welcome to Kurivon," Wayne greeted, allowing some concern to seep into his voice as he surveyed the huddled group and noticed similar expressions of grief mirrored throughout. "I sense that this is not the joyous occasion we had anticipated." "Terrible news must be shared swiftly," Langston replied flatly. "Alpha, on our journey to Council Headquarters, we were ambushed by an army of demons. The attack caught us completely off guard, considering how close we were to Halforst's heavily guarded center. We fought for our lives and managed to repel the attack, but at a great cost. You are looking at the only survivors, Alpha Wayne. Twenty lives were lost." Wayne focused on his breathing, needing a moment to process the enormity of his advisor's words. The old man shifted his weight slightly, and Wayne could tell from the wince he couldn't quite hide that Langston was among the injured. Aware of the other Alphas standing behind him, waiting to greet his pack and celebrate their safe arrival on Kurivon, Wayne couldn't help but feel the weight of the tragedy. Almost half of his pack... it was unimaginable. A wild, desperate part of him wished it were some terrible joke his advisor was playing on him. But denial was an irrational response to tragedy, one he had hoped to rise above."I wish I had been there," Wayne whispered, his voice laced with regret as he locked eyes with each of his remaining packmates. "An Alpha's duty is to stand between his pack and any danger that threatens them. I failed each of you." Dahlia, one of Emma's closest friends, her voice hoarse and her face stained with tears, interrupted him gently. "You couldn't have known," she said, her words filled with sympathy. Her dark hair peeked out from underneath bandages, adding to the weight of her words. "We were so close to the city walls. Demonic presence doesn't just appear without warning, unless someone-" "Dahlia," Langston interjected sharply. "You know better than to speculate. Leave it to the Alpha." Dahlia's grief-stricken face contorted with anger. "It's her fault," she hissed, her words dripping with venom. "It's her fault, Alpha Wayne. She came back, just to..." She paused to take a shaky breath. "Emma's dead," she spat out abruptly, as if the words themselves were a poison she needed to expel. Wayne felt his heart skip a beat, freezing in his chest. "Richard?" he asked, his voice wavering. He couldn't breathe until he knew the answer. Langston stepped forward quickly. "He's safe, Wayne," Langston reassured him, urgency lacing his words. "His mother died protecting him. I did what I could to tend to her wounds, but..." Wayne saw the resignation etched on Langston's face, the struggle within him to accept responsibility for what had happened. But Wayne could also sense that Langston had more to say. "Go on," Wayne urged, steadying his voice. "Tell me everything." "Yes. What Dahlia hinted at," Langston began, glancing at the woman who was now on her knees, her soulmate's arm wrapped around her for support. It was clear that she had nothing more to add at that moment. "During the attack, we discovered something...well, it's best if you see it for yourself." At the back of the group, a few wolves were organizing the pack's belongings that had been brought through the portal. But as Langston guided Wayne through the crowd, he realized with a jolt of unease that there was more than just boxes and suitcases. Amongst their haphazardly packed belongings, Wayne spotted a couple of stretchers, bearing the unconscious bodies of wolves too injured to make the journey on foot. One of the stretchers was smaller than the rest, and Wayne's heart stopped when he saw his son lying there. "He's unharmed," Langston hurriedly assured him, placing a reassuring hand on Wayne's arm to prevent him from rushing to Richard's side. "But the Council healers and I agreed that sleep would be a mercy for him right now." Langston had always possessed a talent for magic that could render people unconscious. Wayne allowed himself a few more moments to observe the steady rise and fall of Richard's chest before redirecting his attention to Langston. An Alpha couldn't afford to be overwhelmed, not even in the face of such tragedy. Especially in the face of such tragedy, Wayne corrected himself, hearing his father's voice echoing in his mind. When did a pack need their Alpha's strength the most? When was it crucial for him to be an unwavering anchor, keeping them all grounded? "This way, Alpha," Langston said gently, leading him forward. Curiosity gripped Wayne as he noticed another stretcher, set apart from the others, holding a figure so still that he initially mistook it for one of the deceased. "She's alive," Langston clarified, his voice lacking compassion. He reached out with the end of his staff, hesitant to touch the blanket covering the woman's face. With a swift motion, he pulled back the blanket, revealing the woman lying beneath it. For a moment, Wayne stared down at the face of a stranger. Beneath the grime and dried blood, he could discern that she was relatively young, though her appearance suggested she had been living a rough life for quite some time. Scars marred her pale skin, hidden beneath the dirt, and her black hair was jagged and uneven, as if it had been crudely cut just below her ears. "You don't recognize her," Langston observed softly, a hint of revulsion seeping into his words. "Neither did I, at first. The years have not been kind...but it's her." The realization hit Wayne like a crashing wave. Only the knowledge that his entire pack was watching him prevented him from collapsing beside the stretcher. Instead, he stood frozen, grappling with the truth of who lay before him. His heart pounded so loudly in his chest, drowning out even the distant roar of the waves. "I know her," he managed to say, forcing the words out despite the pain they caused him. "This is Margaret. Exiled for the past eight years." A murmur of agreement rippled through the wolves behind him, but Wayne couldn't focus on anything except the slight fluttering of Margaret's eyelids at the sound of her name. He was surprised he could even speak it. Hadn't he spent the last eight years trying to erase that name, that face, the way her eyes would ignite with fire in the flickering light of a campfire...? "It's her," Langston confirmed heavily. "She's responsible for the attack, for our losses. Who else could have led the demons to us?"
Chapter 2 - Margaret
Margaret had learned the art of awakening from slumber with caution. It was a skill that had saved her life countless times in the wilderness, where curious creatures would pounce on any sudden movements from a waking figure. This time was no exception, and she was grateful for her instinctive stillness. This wasn't how she had intended to handle the situation. In fact, this wasn't how she had planned any of it. But dwelling in regret was a lesson she had learned well. There would be time later to wish for a different outcome. For now, she had to face reality, and the reality was that she was in no condition to handle this conversation. Not with half her blood spilled onto the soil back in Halforst. Not with her consciousness clinging on by a thread. Despite her precarious state, Wayne's voice nearly swayed her. She managed to keep her breathing steady, desperately hoping they hadn't noticed her brief moment of awakening upon hearing him say her name. How long had it been since she last heard him speak her name? Years, in truth. In her dreams and imagination, however, it was a different story. But dreams were a luxury she couldn't afford. She quickly resumed her act of playing dead, aided by her battered body as the world around her blurred and shifted, dancing between consciousness and unconsciousness. The attack. That was what kept jerking her awake, more so than the jostling stretcher or the unfamiliar murmurs of voices as the wounded were carried away with the help of the wolves of Kurivon. Margaret had done everything in her power to protect the pack on their journey to the portal, but it wasn't enough. Demons were cunning, and these ones had outsmarted even Margaret, eluding her patrols and striking when least expected. The memory of that first howl of anger and fear, piercing through the peaceful night in Halforst like a siren, was etched into her mind. The rest was chaos, adrenaline-fueled flashes in the darkness—racing into battle as fast as her paws could carry her, tearing into the demons with little regard for her own safety. The confusion among the wolves she still considered her packmates, even now. Half of them hadn't recognized her, the stranger who had charged into the fight. It made sense. Margaret herself doubted she would recognize her own reflection. Years of solitude took a toll on a wolf. Langston's remark that he had assumed she was dead didn't faze her. Those memories belonged to a different life, one she no longer dwelled on while awake. As the interminable hours passed and fever began to course through her body, infection taking hold, the memories of the battle melded into dreams. Unfortunately, dreams paid no heed to the boundaries she had tried to set between her old and new life. With her fever worsening, she writhed and twisted in the grip of much older memories. The four of them, running together under dappled sunlight. The warmth of Wayne's presence in her mind, like a cozy fire on a winter's night. The secret she had kept hidden from him, just as she had from herself... "Easy now. You're safe, you're safe..." Margaret involuntarily uttered her best friend's name before she could stop herself. But the voice she heard wasn't Emma's, and the concerned face above her belonged to a stranger. She blinked, her vision hazy, wondering if she was hallucinating. Yet the woman's eyes remained stubbornly and strangely blue. A white room, flooded with harsh light through the window. Margaret's gaze darted from wall to wall, her body tensing to flee until a surge of pain warned her to stay still. "You're safe," the stranger repeated. Margaret looked back at her, taking note of the robes she wore and the array of equipment laid out before her. A rune-engraved knife hung from her belt—a senior Lorekeeper. The relief of having her wounds tended to was quickly overshadowed by the grim realization that it wasn't Langston who was caring for her. She was in the hands of a stranger. Well, perhaps that was what she deserved. Margaret cleared her throat, struggling to swallow with her tongue feeling strange and heavy in her mouth. How long had it been since she last spoke? How long had it been since she spent more than a few hours in this human body? It healed faster than its wolf counterpart, and human hands were useful for building and gathering, but she always felt uneasy in such a soft and vulnerable state. Shifting forms was out of the question now. The wolf's wounds were far more severe than the human's, and survival was unlikely in that shape. "My name is Vivian," the lorekeeper introduced herself, her voice low and soothing. "I'm a senior Lorekeeper here in Kurivon. You're in the infirmary. You were badly injured in the attack, but we've cleaned and bandaged your wounds." "The pack," Margaret managed, her head throbbing as a barrage of words assaulted her. "Where..." "They have been taken care of," Vivian assured her, reaching out to place a gentle hand on Margaret's shoulder. The ease with which that light touch pushed her back into the bed pained her. She despised her weakened state. "What's the last thing you remember?" Margaret's head pounded.She reclined against the plush pillow, fully aware that her feeble body lacked the strength to even sit up, let alone escape from this confining room. Besides, where could she possibly go? She allowed her eyes to flutter closed as Vivian leaned closer, repeating her inquiry, asking for her name. Did they not know who she was? She almost answered before biting her tongue. There was no need to offer them any more information than necessary. Langston had recognized her, that much she knew—the icy fury etched on his face had pierced her to the bone. It wouldn't be long before the entire community discovered that the exiled had returned to her pack. It was wiser to play dead, at least until she regained enough strength to devise a better plan. And so, she let the adrenaline fade, surrendering to the embrace of darkness. When she awakened, was it hours or days later? Her voluntary descent into unconsciousness must have been more effective than anticipated, or maybe her body simply craved the rest. Regardless, she was taken aback when her eyes fluttered open to reveal an entirely different room. A new bed cradled her, and unfamiliar scents mingled with the acrid aroma of the healing ointments applied to her wounds. Weariness battled with caution as Margaret struggled to sit up, wincing at the pull of partially healed injuries. Where was she now? This wasn't the infirmary she had last seen. The walls of this building bore the marks of age, the floors faded and worn from years of use. The window frame in the far wall showcased signs of previous damage hastily repaired. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the glass, casting dancing shadows from the vibrant branches of unfamiliar trees. Judging by the view from this upper story, her stomach churned uneasily. It had been far too long since she had found herself within the confines of a more complex structure than the dilapidated hut on the outskirts of pack territory, where she sought refuge during severe storms. The height made her uneasy, cutting off any potential escape route if one became necessary. She narrowed her eyes at the closed door on the opposite wall, wondering what adversaries lurked beyond it. At least, for now, she was alone, and her head was clearer than before. A pitcher of water awaited her on the bedside table, and she eagerly took a sip, ignoring the accompanying tumbler. The fragmented memories of her recent hours began to coalesce into a likely timeline. The demons had launched an attack just outside the city, back on Halforst. That much she knew. Then, a darkness enveloped her memory. The pack must have repelled the assault, seeking healing from the Council. And then, they had journeyed through the Portal. Langston, ever devoted to the plan, even in the face of devastation. But what did it mean that they had brought her along? She was almost tempted to view it as a positive sign, but the fact that they had barely tended to her wounds suggested she was more of a captive than an honored guest. A dim recollection surfaced—the sensation of her hands bound behind her back. She winced as her body tensed, pain shooting through her injuries. Yet, her hands were free. Had it been the Kurivon lorekeeper who had unfastened her restraints? Or perhaps Wayne? Wayne. The one person she had strived to avoid at all costs. She had succeeded admirably in steering clear of him over the years, even when it became necessary to eavesdrop on his conversations for details about the planned move to Kurivon. The relief had been palpable, knowing her pack would leave Halforst forever. A fresh start awaited them. Freedom, at long last, from the haunting specters of their past. Margaret had rededicated herself to their protection with an unwavering fervor, knowing that the day would come when they would depart for a place where safety awaited. They had been so close... and Margaret closed her eyes against the overwhelming wave of grief crashing upon her. How many lives lost? How many casualties? How many loved ones, more precious to her than her own existence, had fallen victim to that attack? And how would they react when they discovered her return, the monster they thought they had escaped? They would undoubtedly blame her—for the assault, for the losses, for sullying their arrival on Kurivon. They would never believe that she had never intended to join them. As far as she was concerned, the plan had always been to see her pack safely to Council Headquarters and then vanish into the forest forever. Just as they had believed she had done all those years ago... Footsteps. The soft sound jolted her from her thoughts, triggering an instantaneous fight-or-flight response. Margaret pressed her head back against the pillow, feigning lifelessness, hoping that her racing heart would steady before the visitor caught sight of the pulsating vein in her neck. Through partially shut eyes, she observed the door swing open slowly, revealing two figures entering the room with utmost caution, as though wary of disrupting her rest. One was short, almost radiating an ethereal glow, the white robes of a senior lorekeeper reflecting the sunlight streaming through the window. Vivian, she recalled, the enigmatic woman with piercing blue eyes who had tended to her wounds. The other figure, however, required no time for recognition. Even with her vision blurred and gaze unfocused, she would have recognized him anywhere. Towering and aloof, he possessed a stillness akin to an ancient tree or a tranquil pool of water. She had always admired his fluid movements, a merciless economy of motion that seemed to transport him to his intended destination as if by magic. Every other wolf in the pack had known him first by his distinctive dark red hair, a familial trait that had marked every Alpha in the pack's illustrious history... but Margaret would have recognized him without it.In the depths of darkness, Margaret would have recognized him. In the silence, she would have sensed his presence. She could have identified him by the way he breathed, the gentle brush of his skin against hers. Even amidst a chorus of thousands, his voice would have stood out. It took every ounce of her willpower not to open her eyes and feast her gaze upon him. The consequences of such a mistake would be fatal, but some part of her still believed it would be worth it. What was her life worth anyway? She had been caught red-handed, following a pack that had cast her aside. And now, it was clear that she was the Alpha's captive. Her life was forfeit. In truth, her life had been forfeit since the day he became Alpha and banished her from everything she held dear. Vivian spoke to Wayne in hushed tones, and though Margaret strained to hear their conversation, her pounding heart drowned out their words. It was a miracle that neither of them could hear the thunderous rhythm echoing in her ears. She felt like a caged animal, desperate to escape, to throw herself against the window until it shattered and released her broken body to the ground below. But she remained still, drawing upon the strength that had sustained her over the past eight years. "She briefly regained consciousness in the infirmary," Vivian murmured. "I tried to orient her, but I'm unsure of how much she comprehended." "Did she speak?" Wayne's voice. It had been a rare pleasure for Margaret to hear his voice over the past eight years, even if it came with the danger of eavesdropping on the Alpha. But the sheer delight of hearing him speak outweighed any risks. "Barely," Vivian replied. "She inquired about the pack, then lost consciousness again." Margaret clenched her teeth, annoyed at herself for speaking at all. Vivian was her captor, her enemy. She shouldn't have given her any glimpse into her thoughts. Knowledge was power, and any insight into her mind could be exploited. "Did you inform her?" Wayne's voice held a weight that belied its emotionless tone. Margaret could sense the gravity of his question, even in his carefully controlled speech. "I told her they were being taken care of," Vivian answered. "I'm uncertain of how much she understood or remembers." There was a pause. "Wayne, her injuries were inflicted by demons." "Yes." "Then she fought on the pack's side." Margaret could hear the caution in Vivian's words and couldn't help but wonder how well she truly knew Wayne. He had been here for eighteen months, after all, and Vivian's careful choice of words indicated a familiarity with his ability to shut down unwanted inquiries. It stung, a twisted form of jealousy that would have been laughable if silence weren't so crucial. The silence stretched, as Wayne came from a long line of Alphas who knew how to use it to their advantage. If Vivian thought her implied question would be answered with time, she was sorely mistaken. Finally, the lorekeeper sighed. "I don't like keeping prisoners, Wayne. I want to understand why this woman is being treated as an enemy." "I appreciate your understanding, Vivian." Wayne's voice seemed distant, as if he stood among the stars. The tropical climate of Kurivon hadn't thawed his icy facade; if anything, it had strengthened it. "You must understand that this is an incredibly difficult time for my pack." "Of course. But--" "I am grateful for your understanding. The situation with this woman is complex, and I have many difficult conversations ahead of me today. Can I count on your patience for now?" "There's no need for politics, Wayne." Vivian's vexation surprised Margaret. In another life, it might have endeared her to the lorekeeper. "I'm your friend. You can simply say, 'Trust me, Vivian, this is a mess I'll handle as soon as possible.' No need for pretenses." "My apologies." Wayne's response was unruffled, but Margaret caught the slight pause before he spoke. Vivian noticed it too, judging by her soft exhale. "Her injuries?" "Healing." Margaret focused on her breathing, keeping it steady and her eyes closed, aware that the figures by the door had shifted their attention back to her. "I cannot stress enough how much she suffered while defending the pack, Wayne. I'm not sure how she survived at all. Each of those wounds could have been fatal on its own." She would have squirmed with embarrassment if she could. What a pitiful sight she must have been, a wounded martyr. What did he truly think of her? Vivian didn't know the full story, evident from the way she spoke about Margaret as if she were a hero, instead of... Wayne's silence stretched on, and finally, Vivian gave up on extracting further insights from the Alpha. "The bottom line is that she isn't going anywhere," the lorekeeper stated briskly. "Even if she regains consciousness today, it'll be at least another day until her wounds heal enough for her to leave the bed, let alone go anywhere. So you have some time to decide whether the woman who nearly died protecting your pack is a prisoner or not." And then they were gone, the door softly clicking shut behind them, leaving Margaret to ruminate. As much as she despised the situation, at least she now had a timeline to work with. She had a day until she could stand again, a day to devise a plan to escape this place. Last time, the pack had exiled her for her actions, commanding her to leave their territory and never return. This time, Margaret knew there would be no mercy.
Chapter 3 - Wayne
The day that should have been filled with joy slipped away in a haze of sorrow. Wayne felt detached, as if he were an observer watching his own life from a distance. This sensation was stronger now than ever before, and he found solace in this detachment. In times like these, distance was a precious commodity. His first priority was tending to the wounded. Luckily, Benjamin and Vivian had constructed an infirmary for Kurivon's sick and injured. Wayne ensured that those who were seriously hurt received proper treatment, including Langston, despite their heated argument that forced Wayne to assert his authority. He knew his pack would be in capable hands with Vivian at the infirmary, along with the lorekeepers from Bryson's pack, even if Langston remained skeptical. Next came the heart-wrenching task of deciding where the survivors would go. Although there were cottages built for them, each designed for specific family groups within the pack, the recent losses made it difficult for anyone to bear the thought of being separated. After a brief discussion with Dahlia, Wayne led the grieving group through the settlement to Kurivon's community center, a building intended for events and celebrations. The large central hall could accommodate dozens of wolves, and the attached kitchen was perfect for group meals. The welcome dinner, which was meant to introduce the two packs, had been canceled due to the tragic events. Benjamin and Bryson took charge of informing everyone about what had happened. As his pack settled into the somber space, the hall felt eerie and empty. The scent of sawdust still lingered, a reminder of its recent construction. Wayne's pack seemed small as they gathered around a long table. Dahlia took charge, striding into the attached kitchen and giving instructions for the rest of the wolves to join her in preparing a meal. There wasn't much appetite, but they understood the importance of nourishing themselves. Having a task to occupy their minds was equally valuable. Wayne left them there, knowing they needed time to process. But there was still one matter that weighed heavily on Wayne's mind—his son. Vivian brought Richard to his bedside while he slept soundly. They had set him up in one of the rooms upstairs in Kurivon's old library. In the past, the lorekeepers of Kurivon had sought refuge in this building, defending themselves against the demons that overran the island. Although the wolves now had other accommodations, a few rooms remained as bedrooms. "I didn't want him to wake up in an infirmary," Vivian explained softly, her blue eyes filled with empathy as she looked down at the sleeping boy. "He's seen enough blood for a lifetime." Wayne reached out and gently touched his son's shoulder, hoping his gesture conveyed the emotions he struggled to express. This reunion was far from what he had imagined. To be honest, he had avoided thinking about it altogether. He expected Richard to have changed—he had been gone for eighteen months. Indeed, Richard had grown taller, his shoulders broader, and his curly brown hair cut shorter. But as Wayne stood there, his son lying in the bed, he still appeared fragile and small, just as he did the day he was born. "When will he wake?" Wayne asked Vivian, realizing he had been silent for too long. "Langston's spell was powerful," the lorekeeper replied softly, brushing Richard's curls away from his face. "But I agree that letting him sleep was the right decision. Rest is a gift during times like these. He'll wake soon. When he does, try to get him to drink some water, alright?" She nodded towards the pitcher by the bedside. Before leaving the room, Wayne cleared his throat. "At the infirmary, I didn't see—" "I dressed her wounds and brought her here," Vivian interrupted, raising an eyebrow. "Langston thought she would be disruptive to the other patients." "Good," Wayne said, feeling immense relief that he was discussing this with Vivian instead of Bryson, who would have bombarded him with countless questions. "That's good." "Her hands were tied," Vivian added, her tone almost neutral. "I untied her." It wasn't a question, and Wayne didn't have to refuse to answer. He turned his attention back to his sleeping son. After a few moments, he heard the door close behind Vivian. He was grateful that she didn't press the issue. Seeing Margaret's face was enough—a stark reminder that she was still alive. He didn't have the strength to talk about her or explain their past to the pack. Right now, his focus had to be on his son. He couldn't let the memories of their old life consume him, as they threatened to do. Before long, Richard began to stir from his slumber, his silver eyes fluttering open. As Wayne looked down at his confused expression, he couldn't help but notice how much Richard resembled Marroc. Did it break Margaret's heart to see her lost love reflected in their son's face? "Dad," Richard said slowly, his brow furrowed in confusion."You've returned," Wayne murmured, his voice filled with a mix of relief and concern as he reached out to gently touch Richard's shoulder. The boy struggled to sit up, his eyes widening in confusion as he took in the unfamiliar surroundings of the room. "The pack has made the move to Kurivon," Wayne explained softly. "The pack...Mom." Richard's words came out in a rush, his eyes now wide with fear. "There were demons...Dad, we were attacked! In the middle of the night! Mom was..." Wayne's heart sank as he realized what Richard was trying to say. His wife, Richard's mother, was gone. She had fallen victim to the demons that had attacked them. It pained Wayne to break the news to his devastated son, but it had to be done. He stood outside the window as he spoke, distancing himself from the raw emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. As Richard howled in denial, Wayne felt himself drift away, lost in memories and grief. He imagined holding his son tightly, providing comfort and support, even as Richard's fists struck against his shoulders in frustration. Wayne was an Alpha, a grown man, and he had to be strong for his son and their pack. It wasn't until Richard's cries had subsided into hiccoughing sobs that Wayne returned to the present. The hardest part was over; the news had been delivered. "It won't always feel like this," Wayne assured his son, who had curled up on the bed, tears staining his face. "In time, the pain will ease." There was no immediate response, only a fleeting glance from Richard's silver eyes. The expression on his face was filled with anger and grief, reminding Wayne of his own feelings when his father had passed away. Langston, another pack member, had offered similar words of comfort then, and he had been right. Wayne knew that one day, Richard would understand and accept his words as well. Night was descending upon them, and Wayne didn't want to leave Richard alone in the old library, especially knowing who occupied one of the other rooms. With some effort, he roused the boy and guided him outside, the weight of grief heavy on their shoulders. Richard kept his head lowered, his silver eyes fixed on the ground, making it clear that he had no interest in Kurivon's buildings or landmarks. Wayne decided to take him to the community hall instead, hoping that being surrounded by family would provide some solace. The pack sat together around a long table, just as they had when Wayne had left them earlier. They huddled close, clutching hot drinks in their hands. Wayne noticed the abundance of food on the table, realizing that wolves from another pack had kindly brought supplies for the newcomers. Nearby, he spotted equipment for beds - cots, camping stretchers, sleeping bags, pillows, and bedding. It seemed the pack was doing everything they could to support each other during this difficult time. Dahlia, a fellow pack member, approached Richard and enveloped him in a comforting hug, displaying an ease and familiarity that Wayne envied. "The other wolves have shown great kindness," Dahlia explained, gesturing towards the food. "What else can you do in times like these?" "We will heal," Wayne reassured softly. Richard's voice suddenly cut through the air, loud and filled with anguish as he looked at the pack gathered around the table. Wayne winced at the pointedness of his question. "Is this all that's left? Are the others dead?" "Richard," Wayne warned, but Dahlia lowered herself to be at eye level with the boy, gripping his shoulders gently. "No, sweetheart. Some of the others are at the infirmary with Langston, receiving care." "But not all of them. Not Mom." Dahlia's face twisted in sorrow. "No, Richard," she whispered. "Not your mom. I'm so sorry." "I don't want to be here," Richard's voice cracked with pain, his words growing louder and more desperate. "I don't want to be here! I want...I want..." Tears overtook him once again, and Wayne watched as Dahlia struggled to contain her own grief while holding the boy close. "I'll take him home," Wayne said quietly, aware of the pack's eyes on him. "He can stay," Dahlia insisted, her voice unsteady. "He should be with his pack, with his family..." "I want to be alone," Richard interrupted through his sobs, pushing away from Dahlia and stumbling towards the door. Wayne followed closely behind. There was nothing he could do for the rest of the pack tonight; they were safe, together, and had food and bedding for the night. Right now, Richard needed him. But Wayne couldn't help but wonder what he could possibly do to ease the pain for his son. Kurivon seemed less welcoming under the cover of night, the wind pushing forcefully against Richard's small frame. Wayne moved closer, attempting to place a hand on his son's shoulder, only to have it shrugged off. However, it didn't take much coaxing to get Richard to follow him. After all, where else could he go? They walked in silence, Wayne struggling with his own doubts and uncertainties. Questions would arise when he showed Richard the cottage awaiting them - questions about the house's layout, the three chairs around the dining room table, the third bedroom decorated for a woman who would never see it. Wayne knew he couldn't dwell on Emma, his dear friend who had been lost. If he allowed himself to confront that reality now, he wouldn't be able to provide the strength that Richard desperately needed. By the time they reached the cottage, Richard seemed to have exhausted his tears once again. Wayne led him into the living room, but the boy's eyes barely registered their surroundings as the lights flickered on. He obediently sipped from the glass of water Wayne poured for him, shaking his head when asked if he wanted anything to eat. "Do you want to talk about it?" Wayne found himself asking, the words slipping out before he could fully consider them.As guilt washed over him, Wayne couldn't help but feel a wave of relief when Richard shook his head. It was still early, and Richard had spent most of the last twenty-four hours asleep. When the boy quietly mentioned being tired, Wayne was more than willing to take him to his room. Richard climbed into bed without so much as a glance around his new bedroom, burying his face in the pillows. Wayne was almost at the door when he heard Richard's voice. "Dad?" "What do you need?" "Why did they attack us?" Wayne sighed. "Demons attack us because they're demons, Richard. They don't think or plan like we do, unlike wolves." "But they don't come into cities. They don't come where lots of wolves are. That's the whole point. Why did they come so close? Why did they follow us?" The truth was, Wayne had been wondering the same thing, just like the rest of his pack. The demon attack made no sense at all. It should have only been possible in the more remote, dangerous parts of their world. They would have come across other settlements of wolves before reaching as far into the heart of Halforst as they had. But he couldn't tell Richard that he didn't have any answers. "Go to sleep," he said instead, hoping he'd have something more useful to tell him in the morning. "We'll talk in the morning." But Richard didn't want to talk in the morning. He got up and dressed when Wayne asked, but he seemed to have fallen into a subdued, sullen silence that he didn't want to break free from. Wayne hadn't slept a wink, and although he was worried about his son, there were a dozen other concerns on his mind. He took Richard to the community center to be with the rest of the pack, then made his excuses and left, ignoring the pang of shame that struck him as he saw Richard's face through the closing door. Priorities, he told himself firmly. He had to ensure the safety of what remained of his pack. Then he could focus on being a good father. First, he visited the wolves in the infirmary, relieved to learn that their wounds were healing well. Langston had already gotten up and dressed himself, refusing to take up a bed for any longer. The old man had always thrived under pressure. Wayne and Langston sat outside the infirmary, basking in the warmth of the sun, and Langston wasted no time in addressing the difficult topic of the dead. Twenty wolves, almost half of the pack's number. "We'll have to hold," Langston said briskly, his voice clipped and businesslike, as if they were discussing a delivery of supplies. "But whether that's here or back in Halforst—" "Here," Wayne interrupted. "Kurivon is our home now. Just because those we lost didn't reach it in life, doesn't mean they should be buried so far from us." Langston nodded. "The bodies are interred at the Council now. I'll make sure they're brought through to be buried... here?" "There's a place," Wayne said simply. On the northernmost edge of the island, cliffs dropped into the ocean below. There was a clearing, free of trees, a short walk from the settlement's edges, with a breathtaking view of the ocean beyond. It was the place the wolves of Kurivon had agreed to bury their dead when the time came. None of them had anticipated such a sudden influx of graves. "Another matter then," Langston said briskly. "The exile. Have you made a ruling?" For a moment, Wayne almost didn't realize what the old wolf was talking about, so focused was he on everything except Margaret. But he knew better than to avoid a subject with Langston. "I haven't decided. I need to hear from the pack about exactly what happened during the attack." "It's hardly relevant, is it?" Langston raised an eyebrow. "She was exiled. Her appearance during the attack is evidence of defiance of the terms of that exile. She must be punished." "Vivian told me that her wounds were incurred while fighting on our side," Wayne pointed out. He hadn't intended to discuss his visit to Margaret's room that afternoon with Langston. It had been difficult enough to stand there with Vivian's curious blue eyes on him, trying not to let it show on his face how hard it was not to rush to Margaret's bedside, to shake her awake and demand answers. "She almost lost her life protecting a pack who exiled her. That should be taken into account." "She survived. Twenty didn't." Langston's voice remained level, his gaze unflinching. "The pack is grieving." "You suggest more suffering is the solution?" "I suggest justice is the least they deserve. But I understand your point. The situation is complex and evolving." "The captive has yet to wake up," Wayne said, recalling the motionless figure in the bed. Even unconscious, he had struggled to maintain control in her presence. What was he going to do when she finally woke up? "Then we'll reassess once she does," Langston said briskly. There was a brief pause, so fleeting that only someone who knew Langston as well as Wayne did would have noticed it. "I know you and Margaret were once close. As close as you and Marroc were, even before that dreadful day arrived." Wayne recognized one of Langston's tests when he saw one. The old wolf had always been suspicious of his friendship with Margaret. But nobody knew the full story of that dreadful day. At least, that's what he had thought before seeing her lying there on that stretcher... "I didn't let our friendship affect my judgment then, and it won't now." Wayne kept his expression steady, and he could see the approval in Langston's eyes. They went their separate ways shortly after, with the old wolf leaning heavily on his staff as he made his way back towards the community center. Wayne watched him go, and only when he was sure he was out of earshot did he release the shaky breath he had been holding. How much longer could he hold himself together?
Chapter 4 - Margaret
Margaret concealed her consciousness, feigning sleep whenever Vivian approached. She knew this tactic wouldn't last, but she needed time to devise a plan. The longer she delayed her confrontation with Wayne, the better. Hearing his voice alone had been difficult enough; she dreaded what would happen when she had to speak to him directly. The following morning, Vivian arrived to change Margaret's bandages. She attempted to pretend she was still asleep, but her flinch gave her away as Vivian unwrapped the wounds. "I can tell you're awake," the blue-eyed woman remarked, her tone laced with amusement. Margaret reluctantly opened her eyes, met with a faint smile from Vivian. "I'm relieved to see you conscious. If you had slept any longer, I would have worried about an untreated head injury." Margaret winced at the raspiness of her voice as she asked, "How long have I been here?" "The pack came through the portal two days ago," Vivian replied, studying her closely. "Do you remember the attack?" "Yes," Margaret replied curtly. How could she forget? After what she had done, she didn't deserve such mercy. "How many are dead?" Vivian hesitated, but her expression provided Margaret with enough information. "Are you part of Wayne's pack?" she asked after a pause, scrutinizing Margaret. "You know I'm not." "I know very little." "We have that in common." Margaret folded her arms, narrowing her eyes at Vivian. Yet, despite the gentle tone and touch, Vivian remained unfazed. "Why don't we help each other, then?" Margaret gritted her teeth. It was inevitable that it would come down to a compromise, and she wasn't in a position to make demands. "Fine. My name is Margaret. I was once a member of the pack, but I was exiled. Now, I'm nobody. Will you tell me how many of my family are dead?" Ignoring the harshness, Vivian calmly accepted Margaret's words. "Thank you," she said softly. "I introduced myself earlier, but I wasn't sure if you were awake. I'm Vivian, Head Lorekeeper on Kurivon. I can inform you that the injured wolves who arrived with you are recovering well. Your injuries were the most severe." Margaret grimaced. It made sense; when you fought without regard for your own life, you were bound to get hurt. Vivian seemed to expect a response, but Margaret shrugged, unwilling to reveal more than she already had. "I couldn't help but notice that these aren't your first serious wounds," Vivian finally remarked. "You have quite a collection of scars for someone your age, Margaret." Margaret shrugged again. She had no reason to feel self-conscious about the scars that covered her body. Let Vivian piece together what eight years alone in the wilderness could do to a person. "Tell me about the pack," she said, displeased with the unsteadiness in her voice. The tremor and creakiness made her sound too emotional. She didn't want to sound emotional. Feeling it was bad enough. Vivian sighed. "The Alpha warned me not to share such information with you," she said, choosing her words carefully, sensing Margaret's burning anger. Something told Margaret to handle Vivian with caution. Perhaps the lorekeeper could be an ally rather than another enemy. "Did he mention why?" Margaret asked, snorting. "Of course not. Wayne hoards information like currency. He doesn't even disclose his name without getting something in return." "I assume it has to do with your status as an exile from the pack." "You assume correctly," Margaret replied, wincing as a sudden movement jolted her midsection. Vivian clicked her tongue. "Be careful. You have three broken ribs and at least two more that are cracked," she scolded. Margaret refrained from pointing out that this was a decent outcome considering the circumstances. She had recovered from worse injuries in the wild without anyone fussing over her like this. "While we're discussing your injuries, I must ask you not to try getting out of bed for at least another day. I understand the temptation, but—" Vivian's sentence abruptly halted, and it didn't take long to understand why. The door behind her swung open, revealing no one in the doorway. Yet, Vivian made an exasperated sound and stood up. Shock washed over Margaret as she heard a high-pitched giggle followed by the thunderous footsteps of a child rapidly retreating down the corridor. Curiosity and dread churned within her as Vivian turned back with an exasperated smile. "I apologize for them. They're incredibly curious about all the newcomers, and impulse control is difficult when you're three." "Three?" Margaret questioned. "My children. Twins," Vivian replied, her gentle smile causing Margaret's stomach to sink. "A boy and a girl named Nathan and Pandora." "I need to rest," Margaret said abruptly, her voice too loud and hoarse in her ears. "Leave me.""Close the door," Margaret demanded, her abruptness tinged with a touch of rudeness. She knew it was a risk, potentially alienating her captor and potential ally. But at this moment, she couldn't bring herself to care. To her credit, Vivian didn't question the request. She simply nodded slowly and left the room, firmly clicking the door shut behind her. Margaret could hear her calling the children's names as she moved down the corridor, and she squeezed her eyes shut tightly, furious with how close she was to tears. Why was she surprised that there were children here? That was the purpose of Kurivon, from what she had overheard in conversations—a settlement, a place for wolves to raise their children and build a future together. It was what kept demons at bay. Margaret knew she had to escape. She cautiously slipped out of bed, testing the limits of her injuries. Much to her pleasant surprise, she found that aside from the painful ribs, there were no major broken bones. As for the flesh wounds, she could feel them, but what was a little pain and bleeding? The healers had either overestimated her injuries or underestimated her ability to deal with them. Either way, she wasn't going to heed Vivian's recommendation to wait until the next day to get out of bed. However, she didn't need to share her thoughts with anyone. Carefully, she climbed back into bed, adjusting the blankets to conceal the fresh bleeding she had caused, and patiently waited for the lorekeeper's return. To her credit, Vivian granted her a couple of uninterrupted hours of solitude before softly tapping on the door and waiting for Margaret's invitation before entering. She brought lunch—a fragrant stew with bread—but Margaret did her best to ignore her growling stomach as she focused on crafting the most believable apology she could manage. "I've been through some things," she began, hoping Vivian wouldn't pry any further. "Things that make dealing with children complicated. I just wasn't expecting it, so I got overwhelmed. I'm sorry I snapped at you." "No harm done. If you want to make it up to me, you could eat something," Vivian suggested, motioning towards the soup. Margaret obliged, making sure not to devour it like a ravenous animal, although it had been a very long time since she had thought of herself as anything else. "You mentioned everyone is healing well?" Margaret asked once she had finished the soup. She could already feel the nourishment revitalizing her, energy rekindling deep within her belly. She leaned back against the pillow, pretending to be drained by the effort of eating. Vivian nodded, though her eyes held a darkness. "The injured wolves, yes. They'll all be back on their feet for the funeral this afternoon." Margaret froze. Had that slip been deliberate? "The funeral?" "Yes, for the wolves who died in the attack," Vivian replied, looking directly at her. The apologetic expression on her face made Margaret want to scream. "I'm sorry, Margaret. The Alpha made it very clear that you weren't to be invited, but I feel uneasy about hiding it from you." "It's fine," Margaret said, striving for neutrality. "I don't want to be where I'm not welcome. Besides, I'm not well enough to attend, even if I were invited." Had she managed to deceive Vivian? She had been a skilled liar once, back when she spent most of her time in the company of others. But it had been so long since she had practiced the art. Hopefully, her peculiarities would be enough to mask any doubts. She couldn't tell if Vivian believed her or not, but the lorekeeper left her alone after she finished her soup. Margaret knew she had to act swiftly. She waited until Vivian's footsteps faded down the hallway before slipping out of bed and dressing quickly. Fortunately, she had taken note of where Vivian had placed her ragged, filthy clothes that had almost fallen apart during her years in the wild. They were hers, though, and her frail human form felt even more vulnerable without them. At any rate, she didn't plan on remaining in this body for long. Just long enough to escape. Margaret had spent the morning contemplating the possibility of fleeing through the building. However, the unsettling encounter with Vivian's children had confirmed her suspicions—there was too much unknown territory beyond that door. She couldn't risk being caught trying to escape, nor could she risk encountering strangers from Kurivon, or worse, members of her own pack. The window offered a more perilous exit, yes, but it was also the quickest. And if she played her cards right, they might not discover her absence for several hours. Opening the window was a simple task. Vivian had left it cracked earlier to let in some fresh air, clearly not anticipating an escape attempt through a second-story window. But she hadn't accounted for Margaret's willingness to descend via a drainpipe. Conveniently positioned within reach of the window, the drainpipe supported her weight as she perched on the windowsill, bracing herself for the pain. With a swift swing, she transferred herself onto the drainpipe, which emitted a few concerning creaks as she hastily descended. Yet, when she released her grip and landed gracefully in the tall grass, the drainpipe remained intact. Margaret took a moment to catch her breath, waiting for the sharp agony of her protesting injuries to subside slightly.Without sparing a backward glance at the imposing building she had just escaped, Margaret slipped into the woods, allowing her wolf form to take over. The relief of being on all fours again was tinged with the intensification of her pain, but she took a few deep breaths, letting it wash over her. She had endured worse and survived. Surrounded by unfamiliar plants, she ventured deeper into the trees, her senses on high alert for any strange sound. These trees were unlike anything she had seen back home. Adjusting to this new environment would take time. The island of Kurivon was tiny compared to the vast country that had once been her pack's territory. If she had been confined to an area this small back then, she would have been discovered within months of her exile. But she had no choice but to make it work. Her pack would never allow her to live among them again, but she couldn't bear the thought of leaving them behind. Not when they might need her. She had hoped that Kurivon would be their salvation, a place where the pack could be free. The recent attack had shattered that hope, and almost half of the pack had paid the price. Margaret was determined to prevent such a tragedy from happening again. The air carried a subtle demonic taint, like the scent of rotting fruit. The first wolves who settled on Kurivon had done a commendable job in pushing back the demonic threat, but its presence still lingered. It was another obstacle to navigate while living wild out here. There would undoubtedly be patrols to avoid as well. Margaret was no stranger to evading patrols. Over the years, the pack had sent out countless searches, insisting that there was nothing but nature and wind in the trees surrounding their village. When necessary, Margaret became the wind itself, a ghost haunting the pack she still held dear. Her steps slowed as her instincts told her she was drawing near. She had honed these instincts over the past eight years, the ability to sense where her family was without seeing or hearing them. It was like a unique kind of gravitational pull, guiding her towards the pack. As she crept through the woods, her ears perked up, catching the faint sound of voices amidst the roaring ocean. One careful paw at a time, she inched closer to where the treeline thinned. Sunset was approaching, and she knew she could get closer once darkness enveloped the area, but for now, caution was necessary. To her surprise, it was Langston's voice that she recognized. Straining to listen, Margaret strained to make out his words. He was conducting burial rites for the fallen pack members. Curiosity burned within her as she crept forward a few more paces. The gathering stood with their backs to the treeline, their attention focused on Langston, who seemed elevated somehow, speaking from a platform. He spoke of loss, tragedy, and the futility of death, but Margaret found herself tuning out his words. Her focus shifted to scanning the crowd, desperate to identify who was present—or more importantly, who was absent. As the service continued, the sun sank lower in the sky, casting shadows that made it increasingly difficult to discern the wolves attending the funeral. It was a relief to see so many standing there—the demonic attack hadn't decimated the entire pack while she lay unconscious. However, as the group parted for the next part of the ceremony, Margaret caught sight of the dead for the first time. She had anticipated the losses would be devastating, but seeing them with her own eyes was a different kind of pain. Counting, her breath caught in her throat as she took in the carefully wrapped bodies of the wolves she had sworn to protect. It couldn't possibly be so many, she thought, fighting the urge to let out a mournful howl into the gathering darkness. Twenty bodies lay before her—twenty wolves, prepared with love and care for their final resting place on this foreign island that had once held the promise of a fresh start. One by one, the remaining wolves moved among the dead, pausing to pay their respects and grieve. Margaret watched from the treeline, knowing she risked discovery by standing so close, yet unable to tear her gaze away. Her chest ached with the longing to be with them, to offer comfort and share in their grief. When the pain from her wounds became too much to bear, she shifted back into her human form, finding solace in the concealment the trees provided. As tears cascaded down her cheeks, she couldn't help but feel utterly empty. It was in this state of emptiness that Margaret failed to notice the flicker of torchlight approaching—or perhaps she simply didn't care when she heard the first shout of recognition, signaling her discovery. Let them find her. Let them decide her fate, even if it meant death. Maybe she belonged more with the dead than with the living.
Chapter 5 - Wayne
Wayne raced across the rugged terrain of the clifftop cemetery, his heart pounding in his chest. A primal instinct warned him that if any other member of his pack reached Margaret first, they would tear her apart. The woman he had known years ago was now a mere shell of her former self, battered and scarred. He marveled at her determination to make it this far from the library without collapsing. Her pale cheeks and emaciated body were illuminated by the flickering firelight, and he could see fresh blood seeping through her bandages. Despite her physical state, Wayne recognized the unwavering defiance in her bright silver eyes. This was unmistakably Margaret. He would recognize that look anywhere. "Stay back," he commanded as he sensed his pack catching up behind him. Their anger radiated towards Margaret, and he knew he had to be the one to channel it. Lifting the torch high, he addressed her crumpled form. "Exile. What are you doing here?" "Paying my respects to the dead," she rasped. It was strange to hear her voice again after all these years, a voice he had long relegated to memories. He had never imagined her dead, always picturing her in some far-off place with a new pack and a new life. But Margaret was more stubborn than he had given her credit for. Her answer did not please the pack; he could hear their mutterings, and he knew that it was only their respect for him that held them back from attacking her. "How did you escape captivity?" Langston, torch in hand, stepped forward with thinly disguised fury burning in his silver eyes. "How did you find this place? How dare you defy the Alpha's explicit instructions? Why-" "Enough," Wayne interrupted sharply. "I will handle this. Langston, continue with the ceremony. I will deal with the exile." Ignoring any objections from the lorekeeper, Wayne advanced towards Margaret. He could feel his pack's eyes on him as he seized her by the arm, one of the few places on her body that wasn't bandaged. The touch elicited a cry of pain, and he fought the urge to flinch. As Langston called out to them, the pack murmured among themselves, slowly withdrawing. Wayne led the limping Margaret through the trees as quickly as possible, away from the cemetery. "Stop," she snarled, breathing heavily. "Damn you, I'll bleed out." She leaned against a tree, panting as she adjusted a bloodied bandage around her midsection. Wayne clenched his teeth. "The last I heard from the lorekeeper, you were unconscious," he pointed out, keeping his voice low. "Now you're well enough to traverse the island alone? Is there no end to your deception?" "Let's be careful when discussing deception, Alpha," Margaret snapped back, her face contorted with pain as she tightened the bandage around her midsection. "There. You can finish hauling me back to prison now." Instead, Wayne found himself opening the door to his cottage and ushering her inside. This part of the settlement was eerily quiet, with his pack still gathered in the community center and the rest of Kurivon's residents at a distance. They would have some privacy here, unlikely to be overheard even if their voices were raised. And judging by the resentment burning in Margaret's wild eyes, raised voices seemed inevitable. "Sit down before you collapse," he said abruptly, gesturing towards one of the chairs at the dining room table. "I'll give you one chance to explain yourself." "Explain myself? To you?" "Why did you deceive Vivian about your injuries?" Margaret narrowed her eyes at him. "I didn't," she finally replied, her teeth shining with blood. "She may have underestimated my resilience, but that's not my fault. They were my family, Wayne. It was monstrous of you to bar me from the funeral." His temper began to boil, threatening to break through. What was it about Margaret that could shatter his rock-solid defenses? Even as children, she had known how to get under his skin. He remembered Langston rolling his eyes at their arguments, assuring him that it was good practice for maintaining composure. Eight years had passed since she last tested him, and it showed. "Well?" she demanded, leaning forward and slamming her fist on the table. "Isn't this an interrogation?" "Why didn't you leave?" he snapped. "You were exiled." "I did leave," she said coldly. "No one in the pack has seen or heard from me in eight years. Those were the terms, and I obeyed them." "We thought you were dead." "That's not my problem," she retorted, her face betraying only anger. "You didn't condemn me to death, Alpha." The way she sneered the title made him want to tear it out of her mouth. "You chose exile, which is worse. The coward's solution." "You'll be lucky to receive such a mild sentence again," he growled, resisting the urge to slam his fists on the table like she had. He had to prove that he was better, stronger than her. "The pack will demand more than exile for what you've done." Margaret met his gaze across the table, daring him to continue. He tried, and failed, to wait her out. "Breaking the terms of your exile."As the pack continued their journey, Margaret's words cut through Wayne with a sharpness that he had never experienced before. The disrespect in her tone burned more painfully than any other insult he had endured. He tried to confront her, to understand her actions and motivations, but she refused to answer his questions. "Stop pretending," Margaret said coldly, interrupting him. "You have no idea what I've done or why I've done it." Her words struck him like a blow, leaving him momentarily speechless. Through gritted teeth, he managed to respond, "That's exactly what I am attempting to ascertain. What you've done and why you've done it are the very questions you're refusing to answer." Margaret snapped, her frustration apparent. "Isn't it obvious? Aren't Alphas supposed to be clever? Look at me. For the past eight years, I've been living in the woods near the village back on Halforst. I've remained hidden partly because of my intelligence and partly because you haven't posted enough patrols. You've become complacent about the demon presence in the area. And yes, I followed the pack to Council HQ. It's a good thing I did because even more of them would have perished if I hadn't been there. If Langston wants me dead for that, so be it." "Eight years," Wayne repeated, frowning across the table at her. "Why?" Margaret stared back at him, and he was taken aback when anger dissolved into hurt in her eyes. It was the last emotion he expected in response to his question. "Are you really asking me that?" she said softly. "Me? Look, I know I made mistakes, but I thought..." She took a breath, visibly steeling herself. "I swore an oath to protect the pack from demons, Wayne. Did you think your all-powerful word as Alpha nullified that oath? Not a chance." "I thought..." Wayne felt adrift in the conversation, as if the ground beneath him had vanished. "After what happened that day, I thought you had abandoned your oath." Margaret let out a mirthless laugh. "You still can't say it aloud, can you? You mean the day Korvi was killed." Wayne closed his eyes briefly, not wanting her to see the pain etched on his face. When he opened them, however, he found her gaze fixed on the table, her jaw clenched. "Really? You believed I gave up being a demon hunter? Me, who was never good at anything else?" "I was as surprised as anyone," Wayne admitted, struggling to push back the flood of memories threatening to overwhelm him. The day he became Alpha, the day he assumed the mantle of responsibility he had prepared for since childhood. The joyous celebration among the pack had turned to horror when they discovered that the youngest member was missing. The last time anyone saw the toddler, he was heading into the woods with his older sister. Wayne had always admired her skill with knives, her speed and deadly accuracy. What safer place could there be for a child than under the watchful eye of the pack's most promising young demon hunter? The pack scoured the woods in a panic, realizing too late that the air was thick with the telltale signs of demonic presence. Marroc was the one who eventually found the child—along with the demon that had been hunting him. At least, that was their assumption. All that remained when the rest of the pack arrived at the gruesome scene were Marroc's fatal wounds, still hissing and bubbling with demonic ichor, and the lifeless body of the toddler he had died trying to protect. When confronted with the tragedy caused by her negligence, the boy's sister had not uttered a single word in her defense. And so, in his first act as Alpha, Wayne had banished Margaret from the pack forever. "I never broke my oath," she whispered now. Time had changed her appearance, making her almost unrecognizable, but her eyes still burned with the same intensity that had pierced him on the day he cast her out. "I never faltered. Not once." "Then what about Korvi?" Wayne forced himself to speak the boy's name, suppressing the grief threatening to consume him. "What about Marroc? Why did you leave them to die?" "I left to protect them," Margaret replied, her voice barely audible. "It was hunting me, Wayne. It could sense..." She shut her eyes, and he fought against the urge to comfort her, to wrap an arm around her trembling shoulders. How could a woman who had seemed ready to tear out his throat moments ago suddenly appear so small? "Demons are drawn to sadness. You know that." "Are you saying it's my fault?" A coldness spread through Wayne's chest, drowning out all other sound. "Of course not," Margaret said, rubbing her forehead wearily. She wrinkled her nose as her hand came away stained with fresh blood. "But did you truly believe it was a coincidence? That the attack occurred on the very day you rejected me?" He could see the effort it took for her to utter those words, the grinding of her teeth. "I won't be blackmailed," Wayne declared, attempting to quell the frantic pounding in his chest. "If you're threatening to tell the pack that the demon targeted you and Korvi because of what I said—" "Don't be foolish, Wayne," Margaret snarled, frustration vivid on her tear-streaked face. "Tell the pack? Are you joking? If that was my intention, don't you think I would have done something about it in the past eight years? I'd rather die, Wayne. I'd prefer death over the pack learning how you turned me into a weak, pitiful fool. I was weak for a day, and that weakness cost the lives of two people I loved more than anything. And if you have even an ounce of honor or any remnants of positive feelings for me in that cold, icy heart of yours—you'll promise me that you'll never tell them either. I couldn't bear it." She took a deep breath, shivering visibly—whether from pain or anger, he couldn't discern. "I'm not trying to manipulate you, Wayne. All I care about now is protecting the pack from demons. If I could have died for them in the attack three days ago, I would have." Blindsided conversations were rare for Wayne, but this one had left him reeling.Margaret couldn't help but feel trapped once again, this time with a significant loss of her captor's favor. Vivian stood at the doorway, her expression a blend of concern and disappointment that made Margaret shrink in size. Wayne, seething with anger, radiated heat beside her like a blazing torch. She avoided looking at him, well aware of the explosive rage that simmered just beneath the surface. Engaging in a shouting match would only lead to disaster, especially given the heightened tensions on the island. To hide her unease, Margaret focused on the task at hand. She poured water into cups, her hands betraying her lack of familiarity with such simple actions. With silver eyes burning into the table, she sipped the water with a sense of awkwardness. Finally, breaking the silence, Wayne spoke, his words laced with a mixture of gratitude and relief. "I won't be telling anyone," he assured her. "Besides, it's not relevant to the situation at hand. You're an exile, Margaret. That means you can't be here. You should never have come." Fatigue suddenly weighed heavily in Margaret's voice as she responded, "I had no intention of being here. I was only ensuring their safe passage through the city gates. But then I got knocked out in the fight, and that was that. The pack brought me here, Wayne. I didn't come willingly. Can't you see my hands were tied? Literally? Even when half-dead, Langston still bound my hands." She shook her head, a smile flickering across her face, though its meaning remained elusive. "He's even colder than you, Wayne. Although I have no doubt you'll get there one day." Before Wayne could reply, Margaret's eyes widened, and she turned her head abruptly, like a startled animal. It didn't take long for Wayne to hear what had caught her attention—footsteps and Dahlia's familiar voice bidding goodnight. Richard was entering through the front door, bundled up in a jacket too heavy for the mild evening. Wayne and Margaret stared at each other, both at a loss for what to do. "Hey," Richard said, his gaze fixed on the stranger sitting at the dining room table. In that moment, Wayne realized that his son would never have met Margaret, never even seen her before. "You're the one everyone got mad about at the funeral." Wayne turned to Margaret, expecting to see her looking uneasy or defensive. Instead, he was met with a look of sheer joy, as if Richard's presence was an answered prayer. Margaret gazed at Richard, her eyes brimming with tears. "You—" Her voice faltered, and she cleared her throat before continuing. "Oh, you—you must be—you look just like your father." Richard furrowed his brow and glanced instinctively at Wayne before realization dawned. "You knew Marroc?" "Enough," Wayne replied flatly, rising from his seat so abruptly that the chair scraped across the wooden floor. Margaret's attention remained fixed on Richard, while Wayne's fists clenched at the sight of the expression on her face. "Richard, go to your room." "Wait," Richard protested, still staring at Margaret. "Who are you?" "None of your concern," Wayne snapped, frustration boiling in his chest. This was not the time to introduce Richard to a long-lost family member, not with a funeral fresh in their minds, not with Margaret covered in dirt and blood, looking like a savage beast dragged in from the wilds. And certainly not when Richard had barely acknowledged the death of his mother, let alone recovered from it. "Richard, I told you to go to bed." A flicker of defiance sparked in Richard's eyes as he raised his chin and met Wayne's gaze. "I don't want to," he declared, resembling Marroc so much in that moment that Wayne almost relented. But he steeled himself. "I don't care what you want," Wayne said, allowing his anger to seep into his voice, causing Richard to recoil slightly in surprise and unease. "You will do as you're told. Now." Richard seemed on the verge of arguing, but a glimmer of fear in his eyes held him back. Wayne felt like a monster, standing there motionless, exuding silent fury in the center of the room. It was as if he was observing himself from outside, peering through the cottage window. And it came as no surprise when the figure he saw resembled his own father—angry, unyielding. "I hate you," Richard whispered, darting past Wayne and down the corridor. Wayne waited for the sound of the door slamming shut, taking one breath as the air settled in the room, before turning his gaze to Margaret. She looked at him, her mouth poised to speak, but he silently urged her to follow him instead. People should indeed be a little afraid of him. "Where are we going?" Margaret asked once they were outside, striding down the walkway. "Back to the library," Wayne replied without looking at her, his voice trembling with anger or something else entirely. "You'll be under the guard of the Senior Lorekeeper until I decide what to do with you." "Wayne—" "Don't," he snapped, wheeling around to face her. "Don't you dare mention my son or question my leadership. Consider yourself lucky to be alive, exile. Remember that the next time you test my patience." She fell silent, her sulky demeanor reminding him painfully of how he used to react when his father laid down the law. At least now she was complying with his orders, he told himself. At least she was doing as she was told. If only it didn't make him feel even worse."Consider Margaret my prisoner," Wayne declared, his voice reverting to its usual icy calm. Vivian's surprise, etched across her face, conveyed the significance of Margaret's elevated status. "She awaits sentencing. I entrust her to your care with the condition that she remains within the confines of the library until further notice." "Understood, Alpha," the lorekeeper responded, her voice mirroring his serenity. Her hand absently tapped the handle of the ceremonial knife at her belt as she spoke. "I will ensure her doors and windows are protected, as well as attend to her wounds," she added, a faint darkness clouding her neutral expression as she surveyed Margaret's injuries. "Thank you, Senior Lorekeeper. I will return for her soon." With those words, Wayne departed, striding down the pathway that led back to the illuminated main settlement. Margaret watched his departure, but her own weariness and pain threatened to topple her. The lorekeeper clicked her tongue disapprovingly before firmly grasping Margaret's elbow and guiding her through the spacious yet sparsely populated hall they occupied. Despite her exhaustion and troubled state, Margaret couldn't help but cast an inquisitive gaze around the vast room. "There seems to be an abundance of space for very few books," she observed. A few shelves stood in one corner, accentuating the emptiness. Vivian gently eased Margaret into a chair, retrieving a pouch from her belt and proceeding to replace the bandage on Margaret's head. "Most of them were burned," Vivian stated matter-of-factly, her tone clipped. "Burned? Why?" "To keep warm while we awaited our demise," Vivian replied, discarding the soiled bandage. She clicked her tongue disapprovingly as she examined the wound beneath. "This was the last standing building when the demons nearly overtook Kurivon. And I was the last lorekeeper. Wayne and his comrades saved my life, and I hold that debt in high regard." Margaret winced as Vivian applied a stinging solution to her wound, but she refrained from interrupting the lorekeeper's tirade. "That being said, I would not have impeded your desire to attend the funeral, Margaret. In fact, I would have aided you. So why did you resort to such recklessness as jumping out of a second-story window, especially with injuries that would immobilize most wolves?" "I thought you would stop me. Report me to Wayne," Margaret admitted. Vivian chuckled softly as she gently secured a fresh bandage around Margaret's neck. "Why? He is not my Alpha." "Another similarity between us," Margaret remarked, fighting the urge to bury her face in her hands. "I believe we have gotten off on the wrong foot, Lorekeeper." "I concur. Perhaps you can rectify it by sharing with me what exactly is happening?" Margaret hesitated for a moment, but she realized that keeping secrets had brought her nothing but trouble thus far. Thus, as Vivian diligently tended to her wounds, Margaret found herself recounting her tale. Not the entire story, of course. Some parts were too painful to even admit to herself, let alone a near stranger. It was a fragmented, disjointed narrative that began after her exile and concluded here, eight years later, in an empty library within a new world. "So, you are an exile," Vivian mused during the ensuing silence. "And this is a permanent state of affairs?" Margaret nodded, feeling the pain in her wounds dull considerably now that Vivian had cleaned and dressed them once more. "It is not a common punishment. Exiles do not return." "Do you believe it is just?" Vivian asked simply. "Yes," Margaret replied tensely, anticipating the inevitable follow-up question. She had not disclosed to Vivian the reason for her banishment from the pack—only that she had once been a promising demon hunter and had spent the past eight years secretly hunting demons and safeguarding the pack. She knew Vivian would want to know what she had done to merit such punishment, and she questioned whether she could even bring herself to divulge that part of her story. Discussing it with Wayne had been agonizing enough. However, to her surprise, the lorekeeper simply nodded. "Then I hope you and the pack can find a resolution," she said softly. "I like to believe that redemption and forgiveness are always possible." "Do you think Wayne is the forgiving type?" Margaret asked, half-jokingly. Yet, as the words left her mouth, she realized she did not have an answer to her own question. Once, she had believed she knew Wayne better than she knew herself. She had been so certain of their connection that she had risked everything, confessing her feelings to him. She had been utterly mistaken, and if she had misjudged that, then how could she claim to truly know him at all? "Wayne? It is difficult to say," Vivian pondered. "In all the time I have known him, I have never heard him give poor advice. He is level-headed to a fault, scrupulously fair and just... but that is the Alpha. I cannot say I truly know the man himself. Not with the impenetrable walls of ice he has constructed around him." A rusty sound escaped Margaret's chest, surprising even herself. It was laughter. "That sounds like Wayne, alright." She sighed. "But when I knew him, the walls were a bit easier to breach." The distant sound of voices shattered the comfortable silence between them, causing both women to turn their attention towards the windows at the front of the building. Margaret, mindful of her captive status, remained seated, while Vivian moved towards the door, curiosity evident in her movements. Margaret strained to listen. The voices did not convey alarm or fear, leading her to dismiss the possibility of a demon attack. However, something was evidently amiss. When Vivian opened the door, two wolves stood on the porch, torches in hand, their expressions etched with concern.Margaret absorbed the conversation, her ears attuned to the apologetic tones of those disturbing the Lorekeeper's work. They inquired if she had seen Richard, the missing child, within the last hour. The mention of Richard weighed heavily on Margaret's heart. Memories of the boy, who had entered Wayne's cottage like a specter in the flesh, flooded her mind. She recalled his curious gaze upon her, the defiance etched on his face as he resisted Wayne's increasingly frustrated instructions. A breath quivered in her chest as she fought back tears threatening to escape. It had been years since she allowed herself to think of her older brother, Marroc. He had always been her hero, even when she was just a toddler learning to walk. He was her protector, confidant, and one of her closest friends. His death had played a significant role in her exile from the pack, a part of her story she seldom revisited. But seeing Richard, his son, staring at her with eyes that mirrored her brother's in their childhood, stirred up that loss once more. Now, Richard was missing. Vivian assured Margaret that the search party would be notified if either of them spotted him. Margaret fidgeted restlessly in her seat, her unease growing. "Wayne's son is missing," the Lorekeeper revealed, her gaze cautious as she observed Margaret. "He couldn't have gone far, right?" Margaret frowned, her mind contemplating the size of the island. "It's not as vast as Halforst. A missing child back home could be anywhere..." A shiver ran down her spine, reminding her to keep certain memories locked away. Vivian scrutinized her closely, and Margaret couldn't help but recall the conversation they had earlier about her feelings towards children. "Should we go and help?" Vivian shook her head. "Wolves from both packs are already searching the island. They have plenty of volunteers." Margaret grappled with her natural inclination for secrecy. Vivian had proven herself to be a trustworthy ally time and time again. As much as Margaret wanted to slip away from the library at that very moment, she couldn't betray the Lorekeeper's trust once more. "I feel like it's my fault," she admitted hurriedly, a strange urge to close her eyes washing over her. It felt as though shutting her eyes would shield this vulnerable part of the story somehow. "Why do you think that?" Vivian inquired. "Richard was born after I left the pack," Margaret struggled to find her words. "So I never met him before. I knew of his existence—I would eavesdrop on patrols if they got close enough, or sneak into the village—but I hadn't... seen him until tonight. He walked into the cottage while Wayne and I were talking, and I just..." She took a deep breath, unsure if she was betraying someone else's secret. "Did Wayne tell you about Richard? About his parentage?" Vivian nodded. "Just before the pack came through the portal. He mentioned that Richard's mother was his friend but not his soulmate. Richard's father passed away a few weeks before his birth, and Wayne stepped up to be his father." Margaret waited for Vivian to delve deeper into the story, but the Lorekeeper remained silent. Suddenly, an uncontrollable urge to laugh surged within Margaret. It must have shown on her face because Vivian raised an eyebrow. "What's amusing?" "Nothing at all," Margaret replied, rubbing her forehead. "Just... the way Wayne tells stories. He reveals as little information as possible, at the very last moment. Just the bare facts. Did he not inform you that Marroc, Richard's father, was his best friend? Or even how he died?" Vivian shook her head, and Margaret felt her laughter building. "It was one of the most tragic incidents to befall the pack. It occurred on the day Marroc officially became Alpha. Shortly after the ceremony, it was discovered that one of the children was missing—the youngest member of the pack, a mere toddler. Marroc went in search of the child and the wolf who had been caring for him. They were found dead an hour later. Demons." Vivian fell into a solemn silence, contemplating Margaret's words. "I'm not surprised Wayne kept that part hidden," she spoke quietly. "But I can't say I'm shocked, considering how he handles his emotions." Margaret snorted. "Emotions? Wayne possesses anger and nothing else. He keeps it concealed, but he vacillates between being cold and furious. Don't let him deceive you. He didn't mourn Marroc's death, and he isn't grieving Emma's passing now. And when—" She caught her breath, aware that she was allowing herself to become carried away. "Sorry. I'm criticizing him, yet I'm doing the same thing he always does. Marroc was my brother." Surprisingly, saying those words aloud didn't inflict the pain she had anticipated. "When I saw Richard, I couldn't help but mention how much he resembled his father." Understanding began to dawn on Vivian's face. "Richard doesn't know about you?" Margaret shrugged helplessly. "Exile means exile. If I had died, they might have informed him that I was his aunt. But as it stands... he sees me as a complete stranger who disrupted the funeral and merely knew his father. And if he's anything like Marroc, Wayne telling him to go to his room instead of explaining who I was would have infuriated him. I'm not surprised he ran away. Honestly, I wouldn't be shocked if he attempted to..." She trailed off, a terrible certainty solidifying in her gut. "What is it?" "Vivian—I understand that I have no right to ask this of you, considering how much I've already broken your trust today. But—" "Do you think you know where Richard is?" "I have a hunch." "Go," the Lorekeeper said simply. Margaret stared at her in disbelief. "Just like that?" A faint smile appeared on Vivian's lips. "Just like that." "After Wayne spoke of me being a prisoner?" "Wayne is not my Alpha," Vivian reminded her, her eyes glinting. "Nor is he yours. As senior Lorekeeper—and as a mother, by the way—I answer only to what is best for this community.""If you can locate this lost child before he lands in hot water, then that's where your focus should be," Vivian said, her gaze penetrating Margaret's soul. "Just promise me you won't reopen old wounds, alright?" Margaret felt torn between relief and suspicion, unsure if this was an elaborate trap. Vivian gestured towards the door. "Go, then. Come back when Richard is safely home." "I will. I promise." Adrenaline surged through Margaret, erasing her pain and exhaustion. She rose to her feet, half expecting a sudden turn of events. But no guards leaped out to stop her, and no lightning struck her down. For a moment, she wondered how different things might have been if her pack had a senior lorekeeper like Vivian instead of the stern and icy Langston. The old man was more interested in what was right in principle than what was actually right. He would never have allowed a prisoner to search for a lost child. A lost child. Margaret reminded herself to stay focused. She couldn't let Vivian down after taking such a risk. Despite being a senior lorekeeper, defying an Alpha's direct request was politically significant. Moving stealthily through the night, she stuck to the shadows in the treeline, hoping to avoid the search parties combing the island. Lost in her thoughts, she failed to notice someone walking towards her through the dark trees until it was too late to hide. Wayne. Always able to move with near-silence, the years had only refined his skill. Margaret tensed, awaiting the inevitable storm of anger. But to her surprise, Wayne sighed. "Why am I not surprised to find you out here?" "I heard Richard was missing. I want to help." Was that a flicker of gratitude on his normally expressionless face? He must have been beside himself to let it show. Before she could stop herself, she moved closer, reaching out to touch his arm. His warmth sent a shiver down her spine. She had always expected him to feel cold and distant, like stone or metal. But she had to stay focused. "We're searching the entire island, but there's no sign of him. Margaret, this place...the demon presence might be diminished, but it's still dangerous. And Richard--" "I understand," she interrupted, her heart pounding. This time of night was when demons were most active. Wayne fought to compose himself, and she felt a pang of guilt for telling Vivian that he lacked any emotions besides anger. It had been unfair. She knew him better than that. "I'm on it. I'll bring him home safely. I promise." "Are you armed?" She grinned, allowing herself to appear more confident than she felt. "Do you even need to ask?" She tapped her belt, ensuring her knives were hidden beneath her worn and ragged clothes. As much as she wanted to stay with Wayne in the shadows, in this strange temporary alliance, she knew she had to go. The warmth of his touch lingered on her palm as she moved purposefully through the trees. Richard. She pictured his face in her mind, so reminiscent of her brother's at that age. Marroc had always been the champion of hide-and-seek, but she had always been able to find him. Taking a deep breath, she imagined she was searching for her brother. And there he was, on the beach. Sand at one end, a jumble of rocks at the other. Perfect for exploring, climbing, and hiding. Mindful of Vivian's warning about her bandages, Margaret navigated the rocks with caution, resisting the urge to hurry. She couldn't risk startling the boy or appearing covered in fresh blood. A faint sound caught her attention amidst the sound of crashing waves. She carefully slid between two rocks, eyes widening as she discovered a hidden cave, difficult to spot from above. "How did you find me?" A small, defiant voice. Margaret squinted into the darkness, her eyes adjusting slowly. She could make out a figure kneeling on a rock just ahead. "Who says I was looking for you?" she replied, her heart breaking. It was what she always said to Marroc whenever she found him in one of his ambitious hiding places. To her delight, Richard laughed softly before stifling the sound. "I'm not going back to that house." "Neither am I." Margaret scanned the rocky ground for a place to sit, leaning against one of the stones. Surprisingly, it was dry. "This is a good spot. It won't get wet during high tide." "The tide doesn't reach here." Richard's gaze fixated on her. She knew that if she stayed quiet, his curiosity would eventually win. He held out for a minute or so, impressing her. She hadn't been that patient at his age. "Who are you? How do you know my...you said you knew Marroc."The mention of her brother's name brought a smile to Margaret's face. "I'm Margaret. I left the pack before you were born, but yeah. I knew both your parents," she said, pausing for a moment before reminding herself of the consequences of withholding information from Vivian. "Marroc was my brother." Richard audibly gasped and inched closer, close enough for Margaret to see his wide silver eyes in the darkness. "Your brother? Dad never told me about any other family." She had known that Wayne hadn't shared this part of their family history with Richard, but it still stung. "He wasn't allowed to tell you," she explained, wondering why she was defending Wayne in this moment. "Nobody was allowed to talk about me after I left. That's the rule when someone gets exiled." "Exiled," Richard repeated, his tone betraying his understanding of the term. Was Wayne already teaching him the ways of the pack? Preparing him for the future, just as his father had done for him? "What did you do?" Margaret took a deep breath. Kids had a way of cutting to the heart of things. "I let some people down," she said simply, hoping it would be enough for him. "I made a promise to keep everyone safe, and I broke that promise." "So my dad sent you away." It was clear when Richard referred to Wayne, the resentment in his voice was unmistakable. "Just for one mistake? He's so—he's such a—" "I know," Margaret agreed, hearing the anger in Richard's voice teetering on the edge of tears. "Trust me, I know. I don't blame you at all for hiding out here." "You're my aunt," Richard blurted out, shifting closer. Margaret nodded slowly. "I suppose I am." "We're family." He seemed to be leading up to something. "Does that mean you'll keep a secret if I ask you to?" Margaret pondered the question for a moment, growing concerned about where this conversation was headed. Truth be told, she had been so focused on finding Richard safe and sound that she hadn't considered what would happen next. Would she stay here with him in hiding until the search parties found them both? What trouble would she face if the pack jumped to the wrong conclusions? After all, she stood accused of crimes worse than kidnapping... "Margaret?" "It depends on the secret," she finally responded. Richard mulled it over, clearly hoping for a more definitive answer, but the weight of his secret was too much to bear. "I'm building a boat," he blurted out, pointing to a pile of sticks and driftwood on the far side of the cave. Margaret could make out the odd shape in the darkness, casting eerie shadows. "Those are my materials," he informed her with a hint of wisdom. "I started collecting them yesterday when everyone told me to go play on the beach. But I'm not playing. Not while there's work to do." She resisted the urge to tell him how much he sounded like his father. "Why are you building a boat?" "Everyone thinks the demons that attacked us were random demons, but they're wrong," he said, his voice filled with conviction. "I saw the demon that killed my mom, and I know it followed us here. It's not on this island, so it must be hiding on one of the others. I'm going to sail to each one, find the demon, and kill it. For what it did to Mom. For what it did to the pack." Margaret let his whispered declaration hang in the air, torn between admiration for the boy's determination and fear at the thought of an eight-year-old child taking on a demon alone. "If you tell my dad, he'll stop me," Richard said when the silence became unbearable. "I told everyone about the demon, but they keep telling me to wait until I feel less sad. But I'm not sad. I'm angry, and I'm going to fix it. And I won't let anyone in the pack stop me." The defiant look in his eyes made it clear that included Margaret. She knew she couldn't agree with what the pack had been telling him—they were right, of course—but right now, Richard needed an ally more than he needed the truth. "Here's the deal," she said after a pause. "I won't tell anyone about your boat or your plan. But in return, you have to go back to your dad's place." "No," Richard immediately protested. "Oh, is the boat already finished?" Margaret knew it wasn't. A moody silence followed. "Are you planning to live here instead? On the beach?" "If I have to." His certainty wavered slightly. Margaret sighed. "Richard, before I left the pack, I was training to be a demon hunter." His wide-eyed stare told her he understood exactly what that meant. "All these scars? They're from demons. Trust me when I say that I hate the demon that hurt the pack just as much as you do. Your dad was my brother, Richard, and your mom was my best friend." Her voice trembled slightly on the last word. "But if you want to fight demons, you have to be patient. You have to make sure you're strong enough. How strong do you think you'll be if you're living out here on the beach with nothing to eat and nowhere warm to sleep?" A long, resentful silence followed. Marroc had always been stubborn, but he knew reason when it was presented to him. Margaret waited, hoping her brother had passed on his ability to see logic. "Fine," Richard finally conceded, the word escaping his lips reluctantly. "I'll go home. For now. But once the boat's finished, I'm going to kill that demon." "I believe you." Margaret smiled at the boy, feeling a mix of sadness and joy as she thought of her brother's face. It may have been reckless to promise to keep Richard's dangerous plan a secret, but at least he was on his way home now. He would be safe there, at least until his boat was complete. And by then, perhaps she would have tracked down that demon herself.
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