The question cut straight to the heart of everything I'd been struggling with since the night everything changed. Because I knew exactly what he meant, had asked myself the same thing a thousand times in the dark hours before dawn.
“Because loving someone means feeling responsible for their safety, even when that responsibility is impossible to fulfill,” I said finally. “Because admitting that some things are beyond our control feels like giving up on the people we care about.”
Dad nodded slowly, like pieces of a puzzle were finally clicking into place. “Your mother would have hated this, you know. Seeing us turn ourselves into weapons because of what happened to her.”
“Would she?” I considered the question seriously, because Mom's opinions had always mattered more than comfort or convenience. “Or would she understand that sometimes you have to become dangerous to protect the people you love?”
“She always said violence was a failure of imagination.” Dad's smile was sad around the edges, carrying the weight of memories that would always hurt. “That there was always another way if you were creative enough to find it.”
“And she was right, most of the time. But sometimes the only choice is between being violent and being dead.” I gestured toward the forest around us, toward the darkness that held threats Mom's kindness had never been equipped to handle. “Sometimes imagination isn't enough.”
Dad slid the dagger back into its sheath, movements more confident now. “She'd be proud of you, you know. Not because you learned to fight, but because you learned to stand up for what matters.”
The words hit harder than any physical blow, making my chest tight with emotions I didn't have names for. “She'd be proud of you too. For not letting grief turn you into someone bitter and broken.”
“I'm not sure I haven't become those things.”
“Dad.” I stopped walking, turning to face him. “You went from suburban engineer to someone willing to hunt monsters with a silver dagger in three weeks. That's not bitter or broken. That's adaptive. That's strong.”
“It doesn't feel strong. It feels like I'm stumbling around in the dark, trying to learn rules that should have been taught to me years ago.”
“Welcome to my entire existence since Mom died.” The admission surprised us both with its honesty. “I've been making this up as I go along, hoping that love and stubbornness would be enough to keep the people I care about alive.”
“Has it worked?”
I thought about that question seriously, weighing victories against losses in scales that never quite balanced. “So far. But every day feels like rolling dice with stakes I can't afford to lose.”
Dad was quiet for a long moment, processing implications that painted our new reality in shades he was still learning to recognize. “Are you scared?”
“Terrified,” I said without hesitation. “Every single day. But being scared and acting anyway is the only kind of courage any of us has left.”
“Your mother used to say that courage wasn't the absence of fear, but action in spite of it.”
“Smart woman.”
“The smartest.” Dad's smile was genuine this time, carrying warmth that had been missing since the funeral. “She'd probably tell us we're overthinking this. That the only thing that matters is showing up for each other.”
“She'd be right about that too.”
We started walking again, father and son learning to navigate a world that had revealed teeth and claws when they'd expected nothing more dangerous than small-town politics. But the silence between us felt different now, less heavy with unspoken fears and more comfortable with shared understanding.
“Thank you,” Dad said as we approached the patrol's gathering point.
“For what?”
“For not shutting me out of this. For letting me be part of it instead of trying to protect me from ugly truths.” His hand found my shoulder, grip strong and steady. “For still being my son, even when being my son means risking your life for strangers.”
“They're not strangers anymore,” I said simply. “They're family. And family protects family, no matter what shape it takes.”
Dad nodded, understanding passing between us that needed no words. Because that was what we'd both learned in the wreckage of our old life: that love was the only thing strong enough to survive transformation, and some bonds were worth preserving even when everything else changed.
We were both grieving differently, I realized. Dad by forcing himself into this world of teeth and claws and necessary violence. Me by refusing to step back from it, by embracing the transformation that had turned me from photographer into hunter.
Neither of us had found peace. We'd just found sharper edges.
Ahead of us, Evan led the patrol with shoulders that carried too much weight, golden eyes scanning treelines. Jonah walked at his right flank, trying to ease tension with whispered jokes that fell flat in air that tasted like coming storm.
“Why does it feel like we're walking into a trap?” Jonah muttered, voice pitched low enough that only supernatural hearing could catch the words.
