Page 31

The tribe run had become one of her favourite times of month, though she never joined them.

Seren preferred to sit by the loft window, knees drawn up under her chin, camera forgotten in her lap, watching as the wolves disappeared into the trees in a blur of limbs and fur and joy.

From her perch, she could always pick them out—

Veyr, sleek and silver-grey, almost silent as he moved.

And Hagan, broader, unmistakable, his coat deep brown like forest bark soaked in rain.

She never missed the Oracle, either—her moon-pale form often the last to lope into the clearing, sending the juveniles off with a huff and a sharp snap of her jaws.

It had been two months since the fight.

Since the break.

And she was healing—

Physically, yes. Emotionally?

That was harder.

She kept her distance now. Especially from Hagan. Where once she had stared, confused and uncertain, now she simply looked past him. She went about her days, quietly purposeful. However, the thin rope of electricity that seemed to connect them, just got stronger and stronger.

The younger pups—too small to care for politics or posturing—still trailed after her like curious cubs.

The juveniles and adults gave her a wide berth, watching, always watching, but saying little.

Even so—she noticed everything .

She noticed who was struggling during combat.

She noticed which girls came to training with bruises already blooming on their arms.

She noticed who flinched when their names were called, and who laughed too loudly to hide their fear.

And she noticed the way the wind whispered secrets, from porch to window, from firepit to treehouse.

When the adults spoke, their voices rode the air.

She didn't know if it was a gift or a curse, but she always heard.

And she kept the knowledge close.

Sometimes, when Hagan was alone—

Not flanked by Dain or Lia or the other loyal wolves—

He would say something.

Just a few words.

A question.

A dry remark.

"Your elbow's dropped again in that stance."

"That pup's been copying your bow technique."

"You going to enter the archery trial, or just watch?"

Neutral things.

Almost... comradeship.

And every time, just when the thread might've pulled taut between them—

Lia would appear.

Sliding beside him with perfect timing .

As if drawn like a shark by the scent of blood.

He always fell quiet then.

And Seren would offer no more than a nod before walking away.

She tried not to read into the gifts that started appearing at her doorstep. But they weren't random.

A crown woven from wildflowers—laid neatly on the windowsill one misty morning.

A rare herb she'd only read about in a book the Crone had given her, tucked inside her sketchbook.

A bird's nest, untouched, perfect, with two warm speckled eggs still inside.

Mushrooms, the kind she could eat.

A basket of edible berries, still cool with morning dew.

They all carried the same scent.

Hagan's scent.

Woodsmoke. Damp leaves.

Like the woods after rain.

She never asked.

Never thanked him.

But she noticed.

And he knew she did.

When she passed Hagan in the halls or trained with him, she sometimes whispered things .

Not whole sentences.

Just enough to make him look at her.

"Taris's younger sister keeps missing meals. She says nothing."

"Marlen's boy has been limping. His mother's too proud to ask for help."

"That girl who stares at Lia with hate in her eyes? You might want to move her to a different sparring group."

He never asked how she knew.

But he always listened.

And more than once—she noticed the right people being moved, or helped, or gently redirected.

He was changing.

So was she.

They weren't friends.

Not exactly.

But something was building between them.

Slow. Uneven. Unsaid.

And somewhere behind her calm, Seren knew—

Lia could feel it too.

And she wasn't going to let it go quietly.

It was a sunny day .

She hadn't meant to wander so far.

The forest had always whispered to her — calling with birdsong, light through leaves, the hush of unseen creatures — but today it had pulled.

A flash of movement had caught her eye.

A warbler, golden and quick, flitting between branches like sunlight given wings.

She'd followed it, deeper and deeper, until the trees thickened and the ground grew uneven, feral, untouched by tribe patrols.

She should have turned back when she saw the cave mouths, the still blue gleam of the lake beyond.

But the song of the bird tugged at her, and she just wanted—

One perfect shot.

Just as she raised the camera to her eye, she heard it.

A low, guttural growl.

The kind that raised every hair on her body.

She turned slowly.

The vegetation seemed to part, like a breath being drawn back into the earth.

And then—

A huge head parted the vegetation.

And then he stepped out.

Massive .

Easily seven feet tall at the shoulder, even on all fours. His fur was coarse and silver-tipped, his shoulders a mountain of muscle.

His face was long, dish-shaped, and his dark eyes held nothing but the weight of the wild.

Large yellowed teeth were visible through his open jaws, saliva thick and roping from his lips.

The grizzly bear made no sound now—only stalked forward, slow and sure, massive paws flattening the moss and fallen leaves beneath him.

She could smell him—earth and rot.

Don't run, she told herself.

You're not supposed to run.

But her body didn't listen.

She ran.

She ran like the wind, the camera bouncing against her back, her feet tearing over root and rock.

Behind her, she could hear the bear ploughing after her, its huffing breath like thunder in her ears.

She spotted a tree just ahead, tall and wide-trunked, with a thick branch not far from the ground.

With a cry of effort, she leapt—grabbing, scrambling, pulling herself up just as the bear lunged.

A claw swept past her ankle, missing her by inches.

He reared on his hind legs, roaring with frustration, snapping his jaws inches from the bark .

For one heart-pounding second, she thought he would climb.

But instead, the bear dropped heavily to all fours and sat, head tilted.

She clutched the branch, heart thudding so hard it hurt, legs shaking.

Her camera was still around her neck.

Still safe.

Then—she felt it.

Something under the terror.

Something... human.

She blinked.

The bear's eyes weren't just wild.

For a second, they were aware.

A strange ripple passed through the air.

And in her mind—like a whisper too soft for ears—she heard words.

"Help... hungry... alone..."

She froze.

He was speaking.

Not with lips. Not with a mouth.

But she felt the words.

Not a shifter. Not really.

A Forgotten.

One of those who had regressed into their animal form—either by force, trauma, or loss—and could no longer turn back.

Neither fully man nor fully beast .

Just... lost.

Seren's breath hitched.

Her entire body trembled. The scratches on her knees and palms smarted.

But slowly—so slowly—she extended her hand down from the branch, her fingers outstretched.

"Easy," she whispered, feeling ludicrous. "I won't hurt you."

The bear sniffed.

A deep, rumbling inhale, followed by a long, uncertain exhale.

But he didn't bite.

He sat back down, still watching her, confused and heavy.

Seren fumbled with her satchel and pulled out the sandwich the Oracle had packed that morning.

She unwrapped it, heart thundering, and tossed it gently to the base of the tree.

The grizzly sniffed it, then chomped it down in two bites, lips smacking, head twitching with interest.

He looked at her again.

And this time, there was something softer in his eyes. Not like she was dinner.

After a long pause, he turned and slowly, lumbered back into the undergrowth, disappearing between the trees with only the swaying ferns to mark his passage .

Seren didn't move for a long time. She sat on the branch, arms wrapped around her knees, chest heaving with quiet sobs of leftover fear.

Then—

She leapt down, knees nearly buckling—

And ran all the way back.

Back to the Oracle.

Back to the edges of the tribe.

Back to safety.

But she would not forget those eyes.

Or the sorrow in the voice she felt, more than heard.