4
KYLAN
Snow hushes, but the ley line beneath it sings like a struck harp wire. I run my gloved fingers over the fractured cairn that used to guard this stretch of border and listen to that note. It thrums unevenly—three strong pulses, one weak, as though the land itself limps. The damage is recent; yesterday the cadence was firm.
“Where did you come from?” I mutter, nose catching a scent carried on high winter wind. Cold stone, yes, pine resin, yes—but threaded through is something rarer: starlight distilled into human flesh. Oracle musk. It glitters behind the eyes if you have the sight; it hums inside blood if you have the gift. I have both.
I straighten, spine popping after hours hunched in mountain sprint. Leather coat drapes broad shoulders, fur lining flicking snowflakes away. Fresh claw marks slash my cheek—Yarrow’s final message carved skin deep; I let them bleed, an oath to remember every heartbeat lost.
Beyond the cairn a ravine opens, white throat plunging between granite jaws. A storm two nights ago laid its scarf across it; drifts curve like waves about to break. Twilight paints the lip of the chasm violet. Under that fading light I see footprints—single file, spaced with careful precision—heading into pack territory.
Trespasser walks like a combat dancer: weight distributed, toes gripping to feel ley fluctuations. Good. That means she is aware every step matters, which means she is dangerous.
I drop to a crouch, place one hand flat on snow. The world slows. Cracks in nearby tree bark glow faint green, showing raw ley veins. I ride the current farther, chasing the foot-sole impressions pressed in time rather than powder. The prints blaze inside my mind’s sight, leading across a natural bridge of ice toward a thicket where ancient pines knit claws together.
I rise and follow, boots crunching. The obsidian shard in my satchel heats, nudging ribs with molten insistence. It has pulsed since we burned Yarrow, but tonight the thrum is frantic—as if recognizing the one who can answer its origin.
A howl carries on the wind, far behind. Scouts signaling safe retreat with injured cousin. Good. My pack lives because I told them to live; that power weighs, but I will bear it.
The path angles down. My breath clouds, then whips away. I push deeper into that violet gloom, senses widening. A heartbeat emerges, not wolf, not deer—steady, strong, echoing like a bell through my skull.
I spot her.
She stands on a narrow spit of stone overlooking the ravine, cloak’s hem swirling in fickle currents. Silver hair lifts, catching last light, turning each strand into liquid moon. She has just unpinned the hood; I see her face in profile—high brow, mouth set in resolve. But what captures me is the lattice glimmering along her throat and collarbone, as though someone poured liquid gemstone beneath her skin and it crystallized mid-flow.
Her eyes flick toward me before I make a sound. Reflex. Oracles must feel futures shifting.
“Alpha Grimvale,” she greets. Voice carries, soft but resonant enough to reach across wind. No surprise coats her tone—she knew I would come.
I step onto the spit, placing boots where the ledge looks thickest. “You intrude on Shadow Pack lands without petition.” Words emerge clipped, honed. I rest hand near knife hilt, though claws burn beneath flesh eager to surface. “Explain.”
“I cross where I must.” She faces me fully now. The crystal along her ribs catches dusk, refracts rose and cobalt. “Your ward-stones fail. This path is shortest to the shrine.”
“The shrine is sacred to dragons long dead,” I growl. The shard flares hotter until leather pouch smokes. “And off-limits to trespassers.”
She lifts a hand, palm glowing faint with runes I do not know. “The worlds need what sleeps there.”
“Yarrow needed breath in his lungs.” The name tears free before I cage it. Cold surges in veins.
Her gaze sharpens, sorrow blooming. “The cub. I felt the—” She stops, jaw tightening as though the next word costs. “Rupture.”
“Don’t speak of him.” I draw closer, boots skidding on ice. We stand two paces apart, dusk bleeding away while stars spark cold fire above. I tower a head over her, shoulders twice her width, but power coils under her skin like tied lightning.
She looks me over as though cataloguing wounds present and old. “You carry his death—there at the center.” Her fingertip hovers above my sternum though distance remains. “Grief is a fracture. Push at the wrong moment and it becomes a chasm.”
“Oracle riddles,” I sneer, though the shard at my side keens happier, sensing its maker.
“Truths.” She lowers hand. “Let me pass, Alpha, and I will bind the chasm you fear.”
No. If she walks further, she stands steps from heart of my territory, from pups hidden in winter dens. One mistake and shadow tide surges again.
“You will turn back,” I command. My voice—the voice that cows adolescent males and makes rival alphas think twice—rolls through fir trunks.
She studies me, long lashes catching starlight. “I cannot.”
“Then I move you.”
Before the echo fades I release the shift. Bone telescopes; fur erupts chocolate brown across expanding frame. I select bear form—brute strength to drag her out if needed, ballast against ridge quakes. My roar shivers snow loose from branches.
