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SONYA

T he cold mountain air clung to her skin like memory—sharp, stubborn, and impossible to shake.

Sonya stood at the edge of the cliff where the fog swallowed the treetops below, her arms crossed tight over her chest. Her breath puffed white into the wind.

The forest stretched far and wild beneath them, hiding what they’d begun building from the eyes of Gideon’s Torch and Roman’s hunters.

Up here, the world belonged to them.

“I still can’t believe you tore the cell door off its damn hinges,” she said quietly, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as she sensed Landon’s approach behind her.

His arms slid around her waist from behind, warm and certain.

“I told you I’d always come for you.”

“You didn’t have to be so dramatic about it.”

He kissed the side of her neck.

“Yeah, I did.”

She leaned back into his chest, heart steadying against the rhythm of his.

For a few seconds, the cold didn’t bite so hard.

Then, she felt it—the subtle thrum in her chest that pulsed with his presence, not just physically, but mentally.

The mind link.

It had snapped into place the moment she’d chosen him.

Fully, without hesitation.

The moment she whispered that she would stand beside him—not as his shadow, not as some bargaining chip—but as his equal.

And he’d accepted her, not with chains, but with trust.

They shared everything now—thoughts when they focused, emotion like threads between two souls.

Sometimes, late at night, when silence settled and their bodies were twined together beneath old wool blankets, she could feel his dreams brushing against hers.

“You feel that?” she asked softly.

“Mmhmm,” he murmured.

“Like your heartbeat’s braided with mine.”

She closed her eyes, breathing him in.

“It used to scare me. This connection.”

“Still does a little.”

She chuckled.

“Yeah. But it’s real. And it’s ours.”

Below, in a grove ringed with ancient stone and pine, shifters trained.

The sound of fists cracking against bark, grunts of exertion, and the low calls of command echoed up through the trees.

Some shifted and sparred in wolf form, while others remained human, learning to move like warriors again.

Rogues. Exiles. Forgotten bloodlines.

All of them had come here with wounds that Roman left behind or a belief of a better future for their own packs.

All of them had stayed because of Landon.

“They’re not just following you because you’re the Lycan,” she said, voice firm now.

“They’re following you because they believe in who you are.”

He rested his chin on her shoulder.

“You’re the one that got me to believe in it first.”

Her chest warmed.

Below, the elder was already waiting—an old wolf named Thalos, whose grizzled hair was a shade darker than snow, and whose voice carried weight like thunder on a storm-soaked ridge.

He’d known the last Lycan king.

Had served him. Had mourned him.

And now, he trained Landon with the respect of one who recognized history when it breathed again.

Thalos barked out another command and the two of them started walking down the narrow slope, shoulder to shoulder, a quiet army gathering beneath them.

Sonya glanced at Landon.

“You’re better now.”

He arched a brow.

“At walking?”

“At leading. At owning it.”

He huffed a laugh.

“I’m still making it up as I go.”

“Then you’re doing it right,” she said with a grin.

In the weeks since the attack, since the prison break, their small group had grown.

Shifters arrived in pairs, sometimes in whole families, carrying stories and scars.

Some came for vengeance.

Others for hope. But more and more, they came because they’d heard whispers of the red-furred wolf with gold in his eyes and a voice like truth.

Roman’s lies couldn’t stop them all.

“I want to help train,” Sonya said once they reached the circle.

Thalos looked her up and down.

“You’re still healing.”

“I’m not dead.”

His eyes narrowed, but he gave a small nod.

“Then teach them how to move like ghosts. My old body doesn't allow me to demonstrate that well anymore.” He turned to head to the training circle, knowing Landon would follow.

Landon laughed behind her, then leaned in. “You know… I kinda like the sound of ‘General Sonya.’”

She jabbed him in the ribs. “I’ll punch your pretty face.”

He grinned and jogged off toward Thalos, shifting mid-run—effortless now, beautiful and deadly. Sonya’s breath caught every time she saw him like that. Not just the size of him, the glow of power—no, it was the way he moved like he knew who he was now. Like there was no hesitation.

She watched as he lunged at Thalos in a flurry of motion, the elder parrying in a blur of age-earned skill. And as they fought, the others circled closer. Young wolves. Half-breeds who’d never had a place. Elders from forgotten clans. Even human sympathizers who’d seen too much and chosen a side as well as a shifter for a mate.

Sonya spent the rest of the day teaching three younger wolves how to fight dirty—how to take down a stronger opponent with speed, agility, and a little grit. She didn’t teach them to be cruel. She taught them to survive.

By dusk, her legs ached, and her throat was raw. But her heart felt alive.

Later, as the fire cracked in the center of camp and wolves curled up near tents or logs or one another, she sat beside Landon under the stars, their shoulders brushing.

“You think it’s enough?” she asked.

Landon didn’t answer right away. He was watching the flames like they were speaking to him.

Finally, he said, “No.”

She blinked. “What?”

“It’s not enough yet. But it will be.”

She turned to him, studying the way the firelight played across the angles of his face. “You really believe that?”

He met her eyes. “I believe in you. In us. In what we’re doing. And I’m not stopping until we’ve taken everything Roman built and burned it to the ground.”

A breath caught in her throat, half love, half war cry.

She kissed him then, hard and real and filled with everything she couldn’t say with words.

And in that kiss, she tasted the future.

Not easy.

But theirs.