“Yeah, he loves that.” Cal clapped my shoulder and then immediately winced like he’d forgotten I was made of grief and glass. “Okay, no—sorry—too much shoulder. You know what you need? Breakfast.”
Mason called from across the garage, “He’s not buying.”
Cal shouted back, “He’s definitely buying.”
“It’s been your turn for three weeks,” Mason said.
“That’s a vicious lie and I won’t stand for it.”
Cal steered me toward the bay doors, still talking like his mouth was powered by caffeine alone. “Come on. You look like you need approximately seventeen cups of coffee and some aggressive carbohydrates. We’ll tell you embarrassing packstories. Did you know Jonah once got his head stuck in a fence? It was art.”
I let myself be led.
Let the banter wash over me like warm water.
The training ringsat at the center of the pack grounds, reinforced posts marking boundaries, the ground stained dark in places where blood had soaked too deep to wash away.
Wolves gathered in loose formation, and I recognized most of them now. Jonah with his easy grin and fighter's stance. Sienna, all controlled violence and sharp eyes. Theo, solid and dependable. Alaric, watching everything with the kind of attention that missed nothing.
And at the center—Evan and Nate.
My son moved through a drill I didn't recognize, hands weaving patterns in the air that left faint traces of green-gold light. Druid magic, the kind Gideon had been teaching him, pulling power from the earth itself and shaping it into something that could protect or destroy. His face was set with concentration, sweat beading on his forehead despite the morning chill.
Gideon stood off to the side, calling corrections, guiding Nate through the movements with patient precision. “Feel the roots beneath you. They're connected to everything—trees, earth, the network that holds this territory together. Pull from that. Don't force it.”
Nate adjusted his stance, tried again. This time the light came stronger, more controlled, forming shapes that looked almost like vines before dissipating into air.
“Better,” Gideon said. “Again.”
I watched my son work magic that shouldn't exist, command power that had chosen him for reasons I still didn't understand, and felt pride and fear tangled so tightly I couldn't separate them.
“He's getting good.”
I turned. Daniel stood beside me, close enough that I could feel heat radiating off him, could smell pine and leather and something distinctly wolf. He'd appeared without sound, the way predators did, and I hated how my body responded—pulse kicking up, awareness sharpening, every nerve suddenly focused on his proximity.
“Yeah,” I managed. “Gideon's a good teacher.”
“Best there is.” Daniel's eyes tracked Nate's movements with the assessing gaze of someone who evaluated threats and assets simultaneously. “Your son's powerful. More than he realizes. The forest doesn't choose weak vessels.”
“That supposed to be comforting?”
“No. Just truth.” He glanced at me, and something in his expression shifted. Warmed slightly. “Gideon said you might join us today. You serious about learning to fight proper?”
“Figured I should. Last time I just swung silver and hoped for the best.” I tried for casual, but my voice came out rougher than intended. “Rather not rely on luck next time something tries to kill people I care about.”
Daniel studied me for a long moment, something unreadable moving behind his gray-green eyes. Then he nodded. “Alright. Let's see what you remember.”
He called Evan over, had him take the pack through warm-ups while Gideon continued working with Nate on the periphery. Then Daniel turned his full attention to me, and I felt the weight of it—Alpha focus, predator assessment, the particular intensity that came from someone who'd spent decades learning to read bodies and intent.
“Basic stance,” he said. “Show me.”
I dropped into position, the way I'd learned during those desperate nights fighting rogues. Weight balanced, hands up, trying to remember everything that had kept me alive when nothing should have.
Daniel circled me slowly, and I felt his gaze like a physical touch, cataloguing weaknesses, spotting openings, reading the story my body told about training I had never had.
“Not bad for self-taught,” he said finally. “But you’re holding tension in your shoulders. Makes you slow, telegraphs your moves.” He stepped closer, and suddenly his hands were on me, one on my shoulder, one at my lower back. “Here. Drop your shoulders. Engage your core instead.”
His touch was professional, impersonal, the kind of adjustment any trainer would make.
