I look back once. The cottage is already half-swallowed by trees. Just a corner of the roof, a sliver of garden wall, Nugget's empty coop with the door hanging open. The herb rack I built three times. The first two collapsed. Learned about load-bearing the hard way. The garden fence—Kestria helped me fix it last spring, I wonder if she remembers. The worktable. That paste stain. Never did get it out. That's going to hurt later. When I have time. Right now there's no time—Nugget's shifting inside the basket, clucking softly, her feathers still pink (going to be pink for weeks probably), and my stomach is growling, and I haven't sl ept since—doesn't matter. "Okay." To no one. To myself. "Forward it is." I turn around and ke ep walking. Keer hasn't looked back. Not once. He just walks, and the forest doesn't touch him. His hand brushes a trunk—did he mean to do that?—and then he's shifting left before I've even registered the root, ducking a branch he can't possibly see in this light. I don't know how he's doing it. One eye. Dark. Nope. I don’t care how he does it. The tunic I gave him barely covers his thighs. The fabric strains across his shoulders every time he reaches for a branch, and there's a seam under his left arm that's been threatening to give up since we started walking. Can't blame it. I wouldn't hold together either if I had to stretch across all of that. My foot catches on something and I stumble, catching myself on a branch. Nugget squawks. Keer glances back—me clutching bark, chicken flapping, the picture of competence—and grunts. Then turns around and ke eps walking. No offered hand. No "are you okay." Just a grunt. "Thanks for the concern." I shove a fern out of my face. "Very touching." Nothing. Something cracks in the trees to our left. I freeze. Keer doesn't. Whatever it was is gone. Kestria walks between us, slower than she wants to be. She ke eps trying to speed up, then wincing. Arm pressing against her side. That bandage has to be pulling. She's not going to say anything because she never says anything, which is great, love that about her, really helpful in a crisis. "How far?" "Few hours." "Hours." "It's de ep in the territory. That's the point."
De ep in werewolf territory. Cool. Great. "The point being that I can't find my way back if I wanted to?" "The point being safety." She st eps over a fallen log, catches herself, breath hitching. "Humans don't come this far." "I'm a human." "You're a special case." "Is that what we're calling it?" I hitch Nugget higher on my arm. She's heavier than she looks, and my pack is digging into my shoulders. "I'd have gone with 'hostage situation,' personally." Kestria laughs. Then immediately grabs her ribs. "Don't—ow— don't do that." "Sorry. Humorless from now on. Very serious." "That'll last three minutes." "Two, probably." We walk in silence for a bit. Well—Keer walks in silence. He's been silent since we left. Not just quiet. Silent. There's a difference. Quiet is someone who doesn't have anything to say. Silent is someone who has things to say and won't, and every few minutes his shoulders go tight and he veers off the path he was just on and doesn't look back. What is he thinking about? Am I going to find out? No. I am not going to find out. Root. Watch the roots. I nearly ate dirt ten minutes ago. The tunic rides up when he st eps over things. I look at the canopy. I look at the ferns. I look at his thighs. How did that happen. I look at the ferns again. It's dark and I'm tired and my eyes are just landing places. It's fine. The silence is making my brain worse. "Where are you taking me?" I look at Kestria. "What is it? A cave? A den? Please tell me it's not underground." "It's not underground." "That was very quick. That was suspiciously quick." "It's a clearing. Dwellings. Fire pits. A few bigger structures." "Dwellings. As in buildings." "As in buildings." "Werewolves have buildings." "We also have furniture, Mel." "Do you have a place I can work? I need a flat surface, clean water, and somewhere that isn't damp. The paste can't get damp. If the paste gets damp I have to start over and I don't have enough moonbright to start over." "There'll be somewhere." "Somewhere is vague." "It's a big clearing." "Is there moonbright growing near it? Wild moonbright? Because I'm almost out and the cultivated stuff is useless, it has to be wild, and if there's none growing nearby I need to figure out a supply route before Kestria's
next application, which is in about five hours, and—" "Mel." "What?" "Breathe." "I'm breathing. I'm walking and breathing and carrying a chicken and doing mental inventory of my herb supply, which is pathetic, by the way. Three usable bundles. Maybe four if I can dry the wilted ones properly. Do you have drying racks?" Kestria's quiet for a second. "I don't know." "You don't know if you have drying racks." "I've never needed to dry herbs." "Right. Werewolf." I st ep over a root. "You just eat raw deer and call it dinner." "We cook, Mel." "You cook the deer you killed with your teeth." "Are you ever going to let that go?" "Absolutely not. That's a lifelong reference now. Twenty years from now I'll bring it up at meals." "Bold of you to assume we'll still be eating together in twenty years." "Bold of you to assume I'll stop talking about it." Kestria grins, but it's thin. Her hand's drifting to her side again. "I'm fine." "Didn't say anything." "Your face said it." "My face is minding its own business. What about water? Clean water." "There's a stream." "A stream. How far from the clearing?" "Close. Maybe fifty st eps." "Fifty st eps from a stream. That's actually not terrible." Stream, fifty st eps. Flat surface—unknown. Drying racks—build them. Moonbright supply—critical. "Does anyone there know anything about healing? Herbs, bandages, anything?" "We have someone who does wound care. Basic stuff." "How basic?" "Wrapping and cleaning." "Good. I can work with good. Anyone else?" "Not really. Wolves heal fast. We don't usually need—" "You need it now." I duck under a branch. "The poison changes everything. Fast healing doesn't mean anything if the wound's eating itself from the inside." Kestria doesn't answer. Her breathing's changed—shorter, more careful.
I look at Keer's back. He hasn't slowed down. "Hey." Nothing. "I'm talking to you." His stride doesn't break. "Sexy mountain man. Yes, you." I'm committing to this. The name is happening. Kestria makes a sound that might be a laugh or might be pain. "Your sister's side is getting worse." I raise my voice at his back. "And she won't say it because she's stubborn, which I'm guessing runs in the family based on current evidence." He doesn't turn. Doesn't answer. But his pace drops. Not a lot. Just enough that Kestria's shorter st eps aren't falling behind anymore. "Thank you. Or not. Since apparently we're pretending I'm not here." I adjust the basket strap digging into my wrist. "That's fine. I can talk to myself. I do it all the time. Nugget's a terrible conversationalist so I've had years of practice." "The tunic seam under your left arm is going to go, by the way. I give it another hour. Maybe less if you ke ep reaching for branches. I can fix it when we stop, if you want. I have thread in my pack. Somewhere. Under the waterskin, probably. Everything's under the waterskin. I packed in a panic. Which I'm sure you noticed." His fingers straighten at his side. Curl back. "Do you talk? To anyone? Or is this a me-specific silence? Because at the cottage you said words. Not many, but they were definitely words. 'Let's go.' That was two. So I know you can." Kestria's biting her lip. "I'm genuinely asking." I stare at his back. "If you don't talk, I'll stop waiting for answers. But if you do talk and you're just choosing not to talk to me specifically, I'd like to know so I can be appropriately offended." His head turns. Just slightly. Not enough to look at me—just enough that I can see the edge of his jaw. The torn ear. Then he faces forward again. "Appropriately offended it is." Kestria coughs. "He talks." "Does he?" "He's just not—he's not a talker." "I've gathered." I duck past a fallen branch. "What does he do? When he's not walking through dark forests ignoring people?" "He runs the pack."
"Yes, but what does he do? Day to day. Does he patrol? Hunt? Sit on a throne and brood? Because the brooding would track." "He patrols. Plans. Settles disputes." She pauses for breath. "He's up before everyone. Last one to rest." "So he's a worrier." "He's an alpha." "Those aren't mutually exclusive." I look at his back. The set of his shoulders. His head moving, scanning, always scanning. "When's the last time he sl ept? And I'm asking you because he won't answer me." "Keer doesn't really—" "Doesn't really sle ep. Great. So I'm walking into a camp run by someone who doesn't sle ep, doesn't talk, and doesn't eat, probably." "He eats." "When someone puts food in front of him, or when he remembers?" Kestria's quiet. "That's what I thought." I duck under a low-hanging branch. "Add it to the list." "What list?" "The list of things I'm going to fix when we get there." "You haven't even arrived and you're already making a list." "I always have a list. The list is the only thing between me and chaos." Nugget shifts in the basket and I hitch her higher. "Current list, in order: find a workspace, check your bandage, locate clean water, figure out moonbright supply, build drying racks, and now apparently feed the alpha. That's six things and I haven't even seen the place yet." "You're not responsible for—" "Feeding people isn't a responsibility. It's just what you do. People are hungry, food exists, you put them together. Or do wolves not do that?" "We do that." "Then we agree." Ahead of us, Keer ducks a branch and holds it. His arm extended back, not turning around, just waiting until we pass it. I walk under his arm. Pine and heat and skin, close enough that if I looked up I'd be looking at his throat. I don't look up. I ke ep my eyes on the path and my hand on Nugget and walk through. "Thank you." It comes out too high. Squeaky. Amazing. His hand drops and ke eps walking. Kestria's watching me. I can feel it. "Don't." "I didn't say anything." "You're about to." "You just thanked him in a voice only dogs can hear."
"I have a naturally high voice. It's a medical condition." "It's not a medical condition." "It could be. You don't know. You're not a healer." "He can hear your heartbeat, you know." I almost trip. "What?" "Wolf senses. Even in human form. Hearing, smell. He can probably hear both our heartbeats from where he's walking." My face goes hot. My pulse jumps into my throat. "That's—" Paste ratios. Dilution formula. One part paste to three parts—no, four parts for a thinner application. Potency loss at four parts is roughly—"That's very inconvenient information, Kestria. Thank you." "You're welcome." "I hate you." "Your heartbeat says otherwise." "My heartbeat is a liar and it doesn't speak for me." Ahead of us, Keer's ear—the torn one, healed badly, catching what little light filters through—is angled back. Toward us. Toward me. I stare at the ferns. Count my st eps. Think about comfrey storage and whether I tied the bundles too tight and if the centers will mold. The trees get older the de eper we go, taller, the underbrush thickening until we're single file through ferns that reach my waist. Darker here. The canopy's so thick overhead the moonlight barely gets through. Things moving in the undergrowth. Small things, probably. Hopefully. "How are the people? At the den. Are they—healthy? Injured? Is anyone poisoned right now?" "I don't know. I've been gone." "Right. Sorry." I nudge Nugget's wing back into the basket before it catches on a branch. "Keer. Are any of your people injured right now?" Nothing. "Poisoned?" "Mildly inconvenienced?" His shoulders tighten. He adjusts his path around a boulder and his hand finds the rock and pushes off, and the muscles across his back shift under the tunic and the seam protests. "The seam." I point at his left arm. "I'm serious. One more branch and you're going to lose a sleeve." "He doesn't care about the seam," Kestria says. "Well, I care about the seam. I sewed that tunic. Those are my stitches. Watching them die is personal."
Kestria's slowing down again. St eps shorter, her breathing going shallow, careful. "We need to stop." Keer pauses. Turns. The missing eye, the tight line of his mouth—I want him to look concerned. Annoyed, even. Anything. But he just looks at me, and nothing on his face tells me what's behind it. "She's tired." I nod toward Kestria. "The wound's pulling." He looks at Kestria. She's leaning against a tree, trying very hard to look like she's leaning casually against a tree. "I'm fine," she says. "You're not fine." I set Nugget's basket down—she immediately hops out and starts pecking at the ground, completely unbothered by werewolf territory or the middle of the night or anything—and walk over to Kestria. "Let me see." "Mel—" "Let. me. see." She sighs but lifts her shirt. Bandage holding. Edges clean—good. No fresh blood—better. The skin around it is angry red, hot when I press my purple-stained fingers near the edge, but that's healing, not infection. Healing looks ugly before it looks better. "You're fine." I pull the shirt back down. "Well. You're not fine. But you're not worse." Need to find more moonbright soon. "You need to rest. Actually rest." "We're close." "How close?" "An hour. Maybe less." "Then we rest for fifteen minutes and you stop pretending this doesn't hurt." I dig through my pack for the waterskin. "Sit down. Drink this. Small sips." "You're very bossy." "It's a personality trait. I've acc epted it. Sit." She sits, slowly, back against the tree. Keer stands nearby. Not sitting, not resting—just standing with his arms crossed, eye moving between the forest and us. The muscles in his forearms are taut, hands still but not relaxed. Does he ever just... stop? Just stand somewhere without looking for the next threat? "You can sit too." He shifts his weight. One st ep to the left, putting himself between us and the downhill slope where the wind's coming through the trees. The cold draft that's been hitting the back of my neck stops. I check Kestria's bandage again. Already checked. Hands need something to do. "So I'm about to walk into a place with thirty werewolves who don't know me." I pull the dried herbs from my pack and start sorting them.
"What happens?" "Keer's bringing you in. That matters." "Why?" "He's the Alpha, Mel." "Yeah, but what does that actually mean? In practice." "It means when he speaks, everyone stops. It means he's held this pack together for years and nobody has successfully challenged him. It means when we walk in there with you, every single person in that clearing is going to look at him first. And whatever he says about you, that's what goes." "That's—" I stare at him. "Him. The man wearing my tunic." Kestria's mouth trembles. "Don't." "The tunic that barely fits. The one with the little flowers I embroidered on the hem—" "Stop—" "The Alpha of thirty werewolves is currently wearing a tunic with embroidered daisies—" Kestria claps a hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking, eyes streaming. "I hate you," she wheezes. "My ribs—" "Sorry. Sorry." I'm not sorry. "Fifteen minutes. Rest." Nugget has found something in the dirt and she's scratching at it, head bobbing, pink feathers ridiculous against the ferns. At least one of us is having a good time. I lean against the tree next to Kestria and pull Nugget's basket closer, brushing dirt off the handle. My back aches. Everything aches. I pick at a loose thread on the basket strap. Wind it around my finger. Unwind it. Wind it again. "Are you okay?" Kestria asks. "I'm not the one who got stabbed." "That's not what I asked." Tired, hungry, sore, homeless, walking into a place where thirty werewolves might want me dead. My moonbright is almost gone, and I have no idea if they'll even let me set up a workspace wherever we're going. And I need a workspace. Because the paste doesn't make itself and Kestria needs another application in six hours and I haven't— "Ask me once I've sl ept and eaten actual food. And once you've stopped almost dying." "I'm not almost dying." "You got stabbed with a poisoned sword yesterday. That is firmly in the almost-dying category." "It's more of a 'had a rough day' category." "Had a rough—Kestria, your wound was turning gray." "Only a little gray." I stare at her. She grins at me, tired and pale and infuriating. "I'm glad you're alive." I bump my shoulder against hers. "Even though you're terrible." "I'm glad you're here," she says. "Even though you're loud." "I'm not loud. I have a carrying voice. There's a difference." "There really isn't."
"Are any of them going to know me? At the den." "Some of them have seen you before. The ones you treated." "As wolves. Not as a person walking into their home carrying a chicken." "There's Rhen. You treated him years ago. He'll vouch for you." "One person." "One's enough to start." She leans her head back against the bark. "You'll be fine." "You don't know that." "I know you." She touches my arm, quick and warm. "You'll be fine." Keer comes back. I didn't notice him leave—he was just there and now he's walking out of the trees, and someone that large has no business moving that quietly. He looks at Kestria. Looks at me. Doesn't ask if she can walk—just waits. His gaze goes to Kestria's hand at her side, how she braces before standing. He doesn't reach for her. But he's ready to. I help her up. She's steadier—the rest helped—but still careful, still guarded. Nugget is investigating a beetle. I scoop her up before she can eat it —no idea if forest beetles are poisonous to chickens and I am not finding out tonight—and settle her back into the basket. She protests, loud and indignant. "You're fine," I tell her. "We're almost there. You can eat bugs I've personally verified as non-lethal." She doesn't believe me. The forest gets darker. Denser. Trees pressing together with their branches woven overhead until there's no sky at all. More movement now. More rustling in the undergrowth, more life in the branches above us. I tighten my grip on the basket and ke ep my eyes on the back of Keer's head because that's easier than thinking about what's in the bushes. "You know, most people make small talk on long walks." I catch a branch before it swings back into Kestria. "Weather. Favorite food. Whether they prefer their deer raw or lightly mauled." Nothing. But his pace is different now. Somehow I'm not falling behind anymore. "I'll take that as 'lightly mauled.'" And ahead—voices. Faint but definite. "Almost there." Kestria's hand finds my elbow. "What do I do? When we walk in. Do I bow? Is there a protocol? Do I present myself to the council of wolves or—" "Just be yourself." "That's the worst advice you've ever given me." I don't argue. My boots find the path and I ke ep walking. Keer stops at the top of a rise and waits for us. I st ep up beside him and the heat of him hits me first—even in the cool dawn air—and then pine and sweat, and I'm standing too close, close enough to see the pulse in his throat, the dark hair at his collar— Bandage check. Kestria's due for another paste application in—four hours? Five? I need to figure out where to set up when we get there. Need a flat surface, clean water, somewhere to store the jars. And I need to find out if there's any moonbright growing near— I look down.
Structures. Dozens of them scattered through a clearing in the trees. Smoke rising from fires, thin and blue in the early light. People—human- shaped, moving between buildings, talking, working. The first real color after hours of darkness and forest. More than thirty. And every single one of them has stopped. Every single one of them is staring at us. At me. At the small white-haired human woman carrying a pink chicken into their home. "Well." I settle Nugget on my other hip. "This is going to be interesting." Nugget fluffs her feathers, unimpressed. That makes one of us.