It is older than memory, older than any one pack or fox den, older than the witches who once claimed it. The stones are cracked, weathered by storms, but the blood-stains etched into them still gleam faint under moonlight, as though they neverdried. The air hums with power, thick and heavy, making every hair on my body rise. My fox crouches low inside me, wary but reverent.
Wolves stop at the tree line, their eyes wide, their bodies tense. Witches step closer, their hands trembling, their breaths uneven. They all feel it. The weight of history. The place where the first Pact was struck—wolf, bear, lion, bull—and where foxes turned their claws to vengeance when trust broke.
Mary steps forward first. Her boots crunch through the snow, her breath fogging, her shoulders square. She doesn’t hesitate. She doesn’t falter. She places her hand against the cold stone, and the air seems to sigh, as though the altar itself recognizes her.
Darius frowns. “You sure about this?”
Mary turns her head, her voice low but steady. “If we don’t change it here, at the root, we’ll only repeat what was.”
Her words cut deep, because she’s right. My claws flex at my sides, my fox snarling low. Ninety years I bled in Roman’s shadow, thinking vengeance was all foxes had left. But vengeance only leads back here—blood on stone, chains on wrists, old scars opened again and again.
I move forward before I think better of it, the snow crunching under my boots. Wolves stiffen, witches murmur, but no one stops me. My fox presses close, his body tense, but he doesn’t fight me. He knows this path too.
Mary looks at me as I come to stand beside her, her eyes sharp but softened by something I still can’t name. She doesn’t move her hand from the altar. She just inclines her head, quiet acknowledgment.
“Guess I’m not late,” I murmur, my voice rough.
“You’re right on time,” she answers, her lips twitching, serious but with a warmth that hits me harder than fire.
Darius clears his throat behind us. “If this is happening, it can’t just be the two of you. The Pact was always four. Four anchors. Four oaths.”
“Then call them forward,” Mary says without turning.
And so they come.
Darius steps to one side, his wolf burning behind his eyes. Rafe comes next, broad as a mountain, his bull’s strength still etched in every line of his body. Malek follows, his lion’s grace deadly even at rest, his golden eyes flicking over the altar like he’s measuring its worth. Cassian takes the last place, the bear’s weight steady, his breaths deep, his presence grounding.
The four stand with Mary at the altar, their shadows long in the firelight. For a moment, the forest holds its breath. The old Pact reborn, but not the same. This time, fox stands beside them.
My claws scrape against the stone, my voice low but carrying. “This altar was stained with blood, bound in vengeance. Every oath struck here has led to more chains, more graves. If we’re going to make a new one, then it won’t be vengeance that binds it.”
Mary’s voice rises beside me, steady, clear. “It will be love.”
The word shakes me more than claws ever could. My fox bristles, restless, but he doesn’t snarl. He just stares at her, the same way I do, caught between disbelief and recognition.
Rafe grunts. “Love doesn’t stop blades.”
“No,” Mary says, turning her gaze on him. “But love keeps you standing after they cut. Love keeps you fighting when fear would break you. Love makes a pack more than a weapon. It makes it a family.”
Malek tilts his head, his lips curling faint. “And if family turns?”
“Then the rest hold the line,” I say, my voice hard, cutting. “No one shadow rules the rest. Not again. Not ever.”
Silence falls heavy, the weight of the moment pressing sharp. The wolves and witches watch from the edge, their breaths still, their eyes wide.
Mary places her other hand on the stone, her shoulders square. “We make the oath now. Not to chains, not to vengeance. To protect the world, to protect humanity, to protect each other. Our strength isn’t just claws and fangs anymore. It’s the bond between us, the mates that ground us, the love that carries us. That is what we swear.”
Her wolf presses forward, her growl low but sure, carrying across the clearing like a bell.
The others move in turn. Darius lays his hand on the altar, his jaw tight but his eyes burning steady. Rafe follows, his massive hand pressing against stone, his breath rough. Malek rests his claws lightly, his lion’s rumble echoing. Cassian adds his palm, grounding the rest.
I hesitate a heartbeat, my fox snarling inside me, restless, uncertain. But Mary turns her head, her eyes catching mine. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to.
I lay my hand beside hers, claws digging into cold stone. The altar thrums beneath our touch, the air humming sharp, the forest leaning in.
Together, we speak.
“I swear,” Mary says first, her voice steady.
