Page 57

Hagan

Hagan crouched in the mud of the streambed, though mud was too generous a term.

What remained of the once-lush waterway was a cracked stretch of bone-dry earth, veins of parched clay webbing outward like scars across the land. He reached down, curled calloused fingers around a handful of brittle soil, and crushed it.

It turned to dust instantly, crumbling through his grip like ash.

His jaw clenched.

Then, slowly, he stood.

Two years, three months, and six days.

That was how he measured time now. Not by seasons. Not by moons. Not by years of training or the rise and fall of border patrol rotations.

Before Seren left. After Seren left.

He was taller now—though he'd already towered before—but broader too, shoulders heavier with the weight of command, arms roped with muscle born of relentless training.

His face had grown sharper, all planes and shadow.

The softness of youth had burned away, leaving something carved and watchful behind .

The wild, curling hair that once fell in unruly tangles was gone—now kept short against his skull, more soldier than son. Even his movements, once reckless with the arrogance of power, were quieter now. Controlled. Coiled.

The wolf in him had never moved so cleanly—so fast.

He didn't stumble through shifts anymore. He slid. One breath, one blink—and he was beast. No warrior in the Vargrheim matched him anymore. Not even Draken. And while Dain and Veyr kept pace, it was only barely. Hagan didn't slow down for anyone. He couldn't afford to.

Behind him, Veyr crouched silently at the tree line, grim and unmoving, his eyes the colour of clear skies and caution. He didn't speak. He still rarely did. But his presence was a constant, and it said everything: I'm with you. No matter what.

Hagan glanced once more at the cracked streambed, the sun-bleached stones where fish once danced in the current.

This was wrong.

All of it.

They both felt it.

This land was dying.

At first, it was small things.

The bees vanished from the southern orchards .

The wolves who ran the hunting trails returned with half-empty hauls.

The forest had grown eerily quiet—birdsong petered out; the rustle of prey almost non-existent.

Herds that once passed predictably through their borders began to shift, veering wide around Vargrheim as if guided by instinct or warning.

Some vanished entirely, their migration patterns broken or altered, as though the land itself no longer called to them.

Then the river by the outpost dried to a sun-baked wound, its bed cracked like shattered pottery.

And through it all, the tribe had waited—silent, watchful, slowly unravelling.

And the miscarriages...

There hadn't been a live birth in the tribe since she left.

The oracle, pale and thinner now, had said it softly one evening while watching the moon through trembling fingers:

"The land misses her. She nourished it. She belonged to it. And now... it grieves."

Hagan had barely slept since.

He stood at the dried stream now, dust curling around his boots. This place—once filled with chatter and birdsong—was silent. Even the insects had stopped singing.

Sighing, he started to weary walk back to the longhouse, Veyr following his lead.

The message came through the tribelink—a ripple of thought, a sudden spike of energy threading into Hagan's consciousness like a crack of light through dark clouds .

There is news about Seren.

Dain's voice. Threaded with something rare. Excitement.

Hagan froze, hackles rising though he stood in human form. His heart stuttered once—then caught fire.

What is it?

There's a wolf here. Just returned from the eastern lands. He's got news about Seren.

Hagan didn't wait.

He shifted mid-stride, clothes tearing as muscle and fur surged forward. Four paws struck the dry ground hard. He ran—wind in his ears, blood in his throat—leaping fallen logs, skimming across clearing and bramble, a blur of bronze and desperate hope.

By the time he reached the longhouse, he was already shifting back. The transformation was fluid now—too fluid. As though instinct took over before he could think.

He didn't bother with fresh clothes, sweat glistening on his skin as he stalked barefoot through the heavy wooden doors.

Dain was already waiting inside.

"Calm down," Dain said quietly, stepping forward to hand him a pair of shorts.

"How can I be calm?" Hagan growled. "Just tell me. TELL ME."

Dain held his gaze but said nothing else. Just turned and led him through the silent corridor of the longhouse, past rooms filled with warriors and maps, and into the Highclaw's private office .

Though Hagan still bore the title of Alphason, it was an open secret that he had been handling nearly all of Draken's duties for the past year. Yet even now, he had been putting off donning the official mantle.

Not while she was still gone.

At the far end of the room stood a Wolf—dusty, lean, travel-worn, his eyes alert and neck bent as the Alphason entered. The scent of a long journey clung to him like a second skin.

Hagan didn't speak.

He just looked.

And the wolf bowed his head, breath shaking. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple.

That's when Hagan realized he had been projecting. His aura was coiled tight, snarling beneath his skin like a leashed storm.

He exhaled sharply and drew it back, step by step, like claws retracting.

The wolf's knees seemed to steady once the pressure lifted.

"Alphason," the wolf said again, steadier now. "Sir. I heard her name. I swear on the blood of the First Moon"

Hagan's throat worked. He signalled for him to continue.

"I didn't see her. But I was near the market quarter, in the eastern province near her house. I was off-duty—the Highclaw had asked me to keep an eye out."

Hagan's fingers twitched. "Go on "

The wolf nodded quickly. "Her mother was there. She didn't see me. She was speaking to an older man. "

"And?" he asked tightly.

The wolf looked nervous again. "He mentioned his son, Talis, had met Seren for coffee in the human city a few hours from the eastern settlement. Said... she was safe."

He stepped back, dragging both hands through his cropped hair before gripping the back of his neck in frustrated disbelief. A breath hissed out through his teeth. He remembered that name. Talis.

He dropped his arms and forced his shoulders to relax.

"And?" he asked tightly.

The scout looked nervous again. "She asked—just quietly, not even the man seemed to catch it—if Seren was alright. "

Veyr, who had slipped into the room unnoticed, stepped forward at last. His voice was low, measured.

"Where is she?"

The scout met his gaze. "I don't know exactly.

They didn't say. But Talis's father mentioned.

.. a district near the forest edge. Somewhere the shifters mix with the witches.

Said he wasn't supposed to talk about it, even with family.

But he'd been worried. Said it wasn't a place for someone like her. "

The silence returned, heavier now.

A heartbeat of hope.

"Thank you," Hagan said quietly. "I need...I just need some time on my own. "

His heart thundered in his chest as they left him alone, the door closing behind them with a soft click. The ache of the bond, a constant companion, embraced him like an old friend.

It was his first solid lead.

But it came with a sharp edge—her mother had refused to give anything away.

Refused to speak to the wolves stationed in the eastern province. Grieving, still. Guarded. Guilt-wrapped. As though her silence could shield her daughter now in ways she hadn't been able to before.

She had lost Seren once.

She wouldn't risk betraying her again.

But the damage had already been done.

Seren had left them all behind and never looked back.

And now—finally—Hagan had a direction.

By nightfall, he stood at Draken's door.

"I'm abdicating," Hagan said, voice flat—but his eyes burned.

Draken looked up from the low-burning fire, the faintest flicker of disbelief shadowing his worn features. "What did you just say?"

"I'm stepping down," Hagan repeated, quieter this time. "Jorik can step into my role. He has been training with me."

Silence settled into the hall like smoke .

"You have been expecting this." Said Draken as he rose slowly, "You've seen what's happening to the land. To our people. We're coming apart. We can't hold this together—"

"And if I had listened to you, to Mom, to Seren, I wouldn't be in this position now.," Hagan cut in. "But I forgot something vital." His voice thickened, almost broke. "My bonded is my tribe first. She should've been my priority."

He let that truth settle, heavy and painful.

A chair scraped. Jorik—broad-shouldered and good-natured even under pressure—stood, crossing his arms. "I'll govern. Keep the peace. But I won't wear the mantle, brother. You're the rightful Highclaw,"

"Not yet," Hagan said, shaking his head. "Not while she's gone. That crown belongs to the man who can stand beside her."

Astrid, silent until now, tilted her head slightly. A small, secretive smile danced at the corners of her mouth.

"We shall see," she murmured.

Hagan's eyes narrowed. "You've seen something."

Astrid only gave the softest shake of her head, a noncommittal gesture. But her eyes—moonlit and knowing—spoke volumes.

Draken stepped forward, hands briefly gripping his son's shoulders.

"I should've stopped you. So many times," the older wolf said. "But I kept thinking... you'd find your way back to her. To yourself. "

"I intend to," Hagan said. "But I won't return unless she's with me."

And no one stopped him.

When he left, his pack slung over his shoulder and a storm curled tight in his chest, the sky was bruising with dusk. The outer gates loomed ahead, tall and grim.

But in the shadow of the tree line, Veyr waited—silent, watchful, already moving.

No words passed between them. Veyr fell in step with him. Together, they got into the Jeep parked outside the tribe gates.

This was the beginning of a hunt.

And this time, Hagan would not fail.