28
MOONRISE
DANIEL
The forest remembered everything. I could feel it in the way trees leaned toward pack territory with patient hunger, in how shadows pooled too thick despite the afternoon sun, in the silence that pressed against my ears like water against a drowning man's lungs. Hollow Pines pretended normalcy—tourists walked Main Street, Martha served coffee with maternal warmth, locals exchanged pleasantries about weather and upcoming holidays.
But underneath it all, the forest waited.
The pack gathered on the grounds with the kind of quiet that meant this mattered. Two weeks since the fight. Two weeks since Alaric died and Silas consumed hearts and Gideon's true lineage had been carved into truth with a father's casual cruelty. We'd spent the time healing—bandaging wounds, reinforcing wards, holding each other through nightmares that came in waves.
And burying our dead.
Now we stood together again, but this time the gathering held different weight. Not grief. Transition. The kind that camewhen you realized holding onto something too long made you weak instead of strong.
I looked at the wolves who'd survived and saw scars. Physical ones—Jonah's shoulder still wrapped, Sienna favoring her left leg, Mason's ribs taped tight. But deeper wounds too, the kind that showed in how they moved closer together now, how they checked on each other with quick touches and careful eyes.
How they looked at me differently. Still Alpha. Still theirs. But something had shifted in the balance between authority and trust, and I'd spent two weeks trying to figure out whether I'd broken something fundamental or if this was just what survival looked like.
Evan stood at my right hand, and when I looked at him I saw Claire. Saw my father. Saw every Alpha who'd come before and left pieces of themselves in blood and bone and the absolute certainty that leadership meant carrying weight that would eventually crush you.
But Evan's shoulders were broader now. Steadier. He'd fought beside me at Moon Clearing, had taken command when I'd been down, had proven that the heir I'd been training for years was ready to be more than just my shadow.
It was time.
“Two weeks ago,” I said, and my voice carried across the assembled pack with Alpha authority that still came naturally despite what I was about to do, “we went to war. We lost someone we can't replace. We learned truths that changed everything we thought we understood. And we survived because we're pack. Because when one of us falls, the rest hold the line.”
Nods rippled through the wolves. Grief still sharp in their eyes, but underneath it—pride. The fierce, stubborn pride of people who'd looked at impossible odds and said fuck you anyway.
“I've been your Alpha for a long time,” I continued. “Longer than some of you have been alive. I've led this pack through territorial wars and rogue attacks and losses that should have broken us. And I'm tired.”
Silence. The kind that came when no one knew whether to be shocked or relieved.
“I'm tired,” I repeated, “of carrying everything alone. Of making decisions that affect all of you without trusting you to carry weight yourselves. Of being so focused on protecting this pack that I forgot to prepare it for what comes when I'm gone.”
“Dad—” Evan's voice was quiet, careful.
“Let me finish.” I looked at him, at my son who'd become someone I was proud of in ways I'd never managed to articulate. “You've proven yourself. You lead when I'm not there. You make calls that keep us alive. And the pack follows you because you've earned it.”
Understanding flickered across Evan's face, followed by something that might have been fear.
“So I'm stepping down,” I said. Let the words fall into silence and settle like stones. “Not abandoning you. Not running. But stepping back to let someone else carry the crown before it breaks them the way it's been breaking me.”
The pack erupted. Not with anger—with shock, with questions, with the kind of chaos that came when fundamental truths got rewritten. But I raised my hand and they quieted, pack bonds pulling tight enough that even their confusion answered to old authority.
“Evan Callahan,” I said formally, and my voice carried weight that made reality bend slightly, “I name you Alpha of Evernight. Protector of this territory and Head Alpha of All. Do you accept?”
Evan stared at me, and I watched him process it. Saw him realize I wasn't asking lightly, wasn't making this choice fromweakness. Saw him understand that this was faith—absolute, certain faith that he could do what I'd been doing and do it better because he hadn't been worn down by decades of loss.
“I accept,” he said, and his voice didn't waver. Didn't hesitate. Just steady certainty that said he understood the weight and would carry it anyway.
The pack bonds shifted. Not breaking—reforming. Authority flowing from me to Evan like water finding new channels, pack magic recognizing the change and accepting it because we'd both willed it true. I felt the crown lift from my shoulders, felt the constant pressure of Alpha responsibility ease, and for the first time in twenty years I could breathe without feeling like I was drowning.
Evan stepped forward, and when he spoke his voice carried the same weight mine had. “I'm not my father. I won't lead the way he did. But I'll protect what's ours. I'll fight for this pack. And I'll tell you the truth even when it hurts, because we can't afford pretty lies anymore.”
The pack watched him with careful eyes. Testing. Assessing. Waiting to see if this young Alpha would crumble under scrutiny or stand firm.
Evan held their gaze without flinching. “Silas is still out there. The wards are damaged. We lost Alaric, and that wound won't heal quickly. But we're still standing. Still pack. And we're going to survive whatever comes next because that's what we do. Questions?”
