“Like winter bear—still, but dangerous to disturb.”
He laughs under breath, a rare sound. “My den has empty chambers. Choose one.”
“I will return to infirmary. The healer’s potions may help.”
He doesn’t release elbow. “You’ll be alone there.”
“I have been alone centuries,” I remind.
A flicker crosses his face—anger or sadness, I’m unsure. He withdraws hand. “As you choose.”
I step toward arch; crystals on collar refract brazier glow into rainbow shards across walls. At threshold I pause. “Your pack’s song—you may invite them to finish near infirmary. Shared grief breeds strength.”
His gaze softens. “They feared disturbing you.”
“It disturbs only when suppressed.”
He inclines head. “I’ll tell them.”
I move back through corridors, limb heaviness growing with each step. Wolves I pass bow subtly or stare with scented curiosity; none approach. They smell starfield on me, and danger.
The infirmary is as I left, though another cup of tea waits, steam curling. On cot corner rests my cloak, cleaned, stitched along hem where antler tore fabric. Such efficiency. I sit, slipping it around shoulders. Fabric warmth soothes lattice ache.
Minutes later footsteps pad outside—multiple bodies. I extinguish closest torch, letting moon-window guide faint glow so wolves need not squint. They file into adjacent hall, forming semicircle around hearth pit now lit by low coals. Fifteen voices rise, blending female and male timbres, old and young, each note carrying memory of the pup.
I lie back, eyes on quartz ceiling. The song enters marrow, but this time it doesn’t cut; it weaves. Each melodic strand passes through me, catching echoes of vision shards, then tiesthem into something sturdier—a net to hold sorrow without drowning.
Pictures form: Yarrow chasing snow moths under aurora, Yarrow teething on old antler, Yarrow blowing twig flute off-key while Rowan pretended not to grimace. Happy echoes balance the moment of his loss. Tears come again, but gentle.
Hours pass like that—the pack’s vigil, low murmur of sleepers, occasional murmured prayer. Finally silence drifts in. I sense the watchers bow heads then slink away, leaving hall ghosted with cedar smoke.
Crystal in chest cools. It approves of grief transformed. I whisper to empty air, “Thank you, little wolf.”
Sleep claims me.
When dawn’s first ember touches infirmary arch, I wake free of new fractures. Small victory. I swing legs off cot, gather pack. Footsteps approach—Kylan’s unmistakable stride, heavy yet silent, like thunder tamed.
He enters, hoarfrost sparkling on hair where he brushed outdoors. In hand, a polished leather harness with metal clasps. “For your pack, distribute weight away from ribs.”
I accept, fingers brushing his when he hands it over. “Thoughtful.”
“Practical. Can’t have you collapsing mid-ascent.”
His eyes skim crystal along my throat. Concern stark. I adjust cloak. “It will not claim me today.”
“See that it doesn’t.” He steps aside, revealing two travel satchels, dried meat strips, water flasks, tiny vials of glowing sap. “We leave in noon sun. Ridge pockets calmer then.”
“Midday turbulence minimal, yes.”
He offers small box. Inside lies Yarrow’s twig flute. “Carry it,” he says, tone gruff, “until we finish this.”
A heavy request—wolf custom passes mementos to spirit guides. “I am honored.” I tuck flute into inner pocket close to lattice.
Kylan shoulders his pack. “Rowan said ridge thunder quieted after our meeting. Maybe it respects our accord.”
“Or fears your roar,” I tease lightly.
He smirks. “Stay behind me if it roars back.”
