Marcus’s body lies wrapped in white cloth atop the pyre. No blood is visible through the wrappings, but I can smell it—coppery and cold. Death has a scent that cuts through everything else.
Dane moves forward. I match his pace, staying at his right shoulder. We don’t touch, but I feel the heat of him beside me, solid and present. He walks with purpose, not hurry. His face reveals nothing, but I can read the tension in his neck, the controlled rhythm of his breathing.
At the edge of the trees, movement ripples through the shadows. Then they step forward: the entire Shadow Peak pack emerging from the forest in silent formation.
Caleb leads them, his presence steady and resolute. Daya moves to his right, Liam and Elysia flanking the group’s perimeter. Mason and Sasha take positions that speak of tactical awareness, while Rowan and Isla anchor the rear.
Around the pyre, Ash Hollow stands together. Derek and Torres flank the eastern edge, their faces tight with grief. Elena and Mateo hold the western side. Reyna and Wyatt have positioned themselves near Kyle, who stands pale but steady. Kevin remains near the lodge entrance, ready to provide whatever the pack needs after the ceremony.
Rafe shifts position, moving to the north end of the clearing, facing outward—a show of support rather than defense. Ansel mirrors him, taking the south position with the same quiet vigilance. Not protecting against Shadow Peak, but with them. Guarding the circle while Ash Hollow grieves.
They spread around the clearing’s edge, far enough to respect territory boundaries, close enough to witness. Close enough to protect. They’ve come to honor Marcus, yes—but more than that, they’ve come to send a message. While Ash Hollow grieves, Shadow Peak stands guard. No attack will come. No threat will breach this sacred moment.
The gesture hits deeper than words. In a world where pack loyalty runs thicker than blood, this is solidarity. This is “we’ve got you” made manifest.
The breath Dane releases is slow, controlled. Relief disguised as composure. Only someone standing this close would feel the tension leaving his frame. His gaze finds Caleb across the clearing for just a moment. The nod he gives is almost imperceptible—Alpha to Alpha, acknowledgment without words.
The pack parts as we approach.
We reach the circle’s edge. Dane stops, and I halt beside him. The pyre looms before us—wood stacked in the ancient way, steep and narrow, built to burn hot and fast. Someone has placed Marcus’s knife at the base, blade gleaming in the pale light.
Dane takes a single breath, deep and steady. The pack might see their Alpha, composed and certain. But I feel the slight tremble in his exhale, the rage and grief he holds beneath his skin.
The clearing waits. The forest waits. The dead waits.
Dane steps forward, lifting his chin. His voice runs low and clear across the clearing.
“Callum. The boundary.”
Callum steps forward from his position, a leather pouch in his hand. He takes a knee at the eastern point of the circle and pours a line of ash onto the ground. The ash is bone-white against the dark earth, tinged with herbs I recognize from Lyanna’s workshop—sage, wolfsbane, and juniper. Protective elements. Boundary markers.
He moves clockwise, each step measured, each pour precise. Where the ash falls, the ground seems to darken further, as if the earth itself recognizes what’s happening.
When Callum completes the circle, Lyanna moves forward without being called. She kneels at the same eastern point and presses her palm to the ash. Her lips move in a chant too quiet to hear, but I feel the ripple of magic spreading through theground. The ash line glows briefly, then settles back to white, now sealed with fae intent.
“North,” Dane calls.
Kari steps into position at the northern arc of the circle. Her spine is straight, her face carved from stone. She draws her knife—not the one she fights with, but something older, simpler—and holds it point-down over the ash line.
“South.”
Ben moves to the southern point, mirroring Kari’s stance.
“East and west.”
Two more wolves step forward—Devon, the youngest of Marcus’s trainees, and Wyatt, who trained and fought with Marcus for years in Storm Ridge. They take their positions, completing the cardinal points.
The circle is formed. The boundary is sealed. Only then does Dane unsheathe his Alpha blade—a hunting knife with a worn wooden handle and a broad, gleaming edge.
“Marcus Everett,” Dane says, his voice carrying to every corner of the clearing. “Blood of Storm Ridge. Heart of Ash Hollow. Tonight we send him to the next run.”
The entire pack responds as one: “Clear trails and open skies.”
Dane kneels at the base of the pyre where Marcus’s blade rests. He takes it in his left hand, tests the edge with his thumb, drawing a thin line of blood. He lets the droplet fall to the ground, then passes the knife to me.
I don’t hesitate. The blade is cold in my palm. I draw it across my thumb as Dane did, feeling the sharp bite of steel, watching the blood well and fall. I pass the knife to the nearest wolf—Callum, his eyes fixed on the pyre.
The knife moves through the circle, each wolf making the same gesture. Blood for memory. Blood for honor. Blood for pack. Even the youngest participate, their faces solemn with understanding.
