Carmilla follows my gaze. “Remember your fracture, Alpha.”
“Why?”
“Because holding me may widen it.”
I scowl. “You are my patient now, Oracle. Fracture or not, I do not drop burdens mid-carry.”
“Stubborn.”
“Correct.”
She almost smiles again, but a spasm arcs her spine. She stifles cry; crystal surges another centimeter. I scoop her before pride protests—arms underneath knees and shoulders.
Her breath hitches. “This is unnecessary.”
“Debatable.” I descend slope with sure steps, snow crunch cushioned by thick soles. Her head rests against my collar, hair tickling throat with wintery fragrance—night jasmine and star ash. The contact pours warmth between skins through clothes; shard’s heat dims.
Gate guards stiffen, smell sharp in air. One, young Vek, bares teeth before recognizing me. I rumble, “Safe passage.”
He thumps chest. “Yes, Alpha.” Eyes dart to woman in my arms, flicker with fear, then back to me. He opens gate.
I carry Carmilla into courtyard. Wolves gather, some half shifted—paws for hands, eyes gold, grief still raw. They stare. I meet each gaze, impose command:later. They bow.
Inside my lodge, fire crackles. I lay oracle on fur-piled bench near hearth. She tries to rise; I press shoulder gently. “Rest.”
Her crystal glints, sending tiny rainbows across beams. Face pale, but calm. “Alpha Grimvale, you assume hushed responsibility swiftly.”
“I have practice.” I unstrap satchel, fish the still-warm shard, set it in iron bowl on mantle. “First truth for trust: You break, I burn the world that allowed it.”
Her eyes widen, then soften. “First truth returned: I will fight breaking if you stand beside.”
Agreement hums, tenuous yet bright. The fracture shifts, not wider, perhaps narrower. I sit opposite, stoking fire while snowfall whispers beyond walls. The oracle’s breath evens, lids droop. As she drifts, her hand curls toward the bowl where obsidian glows. I slide my palm under hers, threading fingers. Heat flows neither scorch nor chill, only steady connection.
Outside, the pack’s mourning song starts anew, softer now, weaving promise with pain. I keep holding the stranger’s hand, listening, guarding, planning. Night stretches long, but I have longer—and for the first time since blood stained snow, I do not face it alone.
5
CARMILLA
Stone breathes beneath me, warm as animal hide. For a moment I float between waking and the after-echo of vision, unsure which realm of sense is true. Then torchlight flickers across a cave ceiling veined with quartz, and the smell of smoked pine needles anchors me. Shadow-Pack den. Memory clicks into place: the ravine, Kylan’s roar, crystal climbing my jaw.
My cloak is gone. Someone laid me on a cot carved directly into the limestone wall, covering the slab with wolf pelts so soft the fur eddies under every exhale. Fire pots dot the infirmary alcove, sending gold tongues up rough stone. Their glow paints my exposed skin in copper—skin marbled by the lattice.
I push upright. Pain rings ribs like a chisel on glass. The lattice has spread another breadth—a pale constellation fanning across sternum, crawling toward heart. I trace one line with fingertip; it tingles cold and beautiful, a road map of inevitability. Time to move, before the crystal reaches deeper organs.
A hushed growl rises from corridor beyond the archway, followed by feet scuffing across packed earth. I swing legs overcot. My boots stand nearby, cleaned of ridge mud. Beside them lies a folded blanket and a cup of something steaming. The scent—oak-bark tea, sharp enough to clear visions tired from travel. Wolves believe this brew marks new beginnings.
Torchlight shifts; a young sentry appears, ears tapered to points betraying half-shift. She freezes on seeing me awake, pupils reflecting sparks. I offer a small nod. “I thank your den for shelter.”
Her nostrils flare. “Alpha said you’d need tea.” She steps in, sets a clay jug on stool, and backs away without turning, gaze fixed on my collar crystal. Fear wars with reverence. She disappears down passage, her heartbeat receding.
Silence settles, but not entirely. From deeper halls drift low harmonic tones. A song—no, a dirge—wolves keening wordless grief. I recognize pack mourning, a ritual older than written language. The melody claws the ribs, then plucks them softly, inviting shared sorrow.
Yarrow. The name pulses through den stone, finds the crack in my heart. I did not know the cub, yet through Kylan’s memory-lash I tasted childlike bravery. Now his pack sings him beyond mortal dens, and the walls carry each tremor. Oracle or no, I cannot stay detached.
I lift the cup; steam sketches runes in air before fading. Sip—bitterness first, then undercurrent of sweet forest floor. The brew steadies the lattice; cold sensation dulls. Vision edges sharpen. I slip down from cot and cross to the arch.
Corridor curves, carved by claws and patience. Glowspheres hang at intervals—crystal orbs fed by captive fire sprites, radiance wavering like breath. Tapestries stretch between, woven from wolf fur and dyed grasses, depicting battles, hunts, newborn pups. One panel shows mountains swallowing eclipsed sun—prophecy or memory, I cannot tell.
