When the blade returns to Dane, I notice it’s clean—someone wiped away the blood, leaving it ready for its final purpose. Dane holds it over Marcus’s body for a long moment, then lays it at the base of the pyre beside Marcus’s own blade. A gift for the next run—an Alpha’s acknowledgment that Marcus died as pack, despite everything.
The circle is complete. The rite is prepared.
And soon, the fire will send Marcus home.
Dane accepts the knife back, testing its weight in his hand. He doesn’t speak. No words would fit here, in this circle of blood and ash. The pack falls still, breathing as one body.
I stand beside him, my blood still drying on my thumb. This isn’t my ritual. Not my loss. But I feel its power pulling at something deep in my chest.
Dane reaches inside his jacket and retrieves a small pouch. His movements are measured, precise. He pours a handful of dried herbs onto the base of the pyre, the scent sharp and clean in the cold air. Mountain sage. Pine. Something else I can’t name.
The wolves at the cardinal points raise their knives, tips pointed toward the sky. Their faces reflect nothing but focus.
Dane crouches, strikes a match against the rough surface of Marcus’s blade. The flame catches with a small hiss.
He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t hold a speech or ask for last words. The pack already knows what Marcus meant. What he did. How he died.
Dane touches the match to the herbs. They ignite instantly, the fire spreading through the kindling at the base of the pyre. Smoke curls upward, white against the gray morning sky.
The scent hits me first. Herbs and wood, then gradually, flesh. I don’t flinch. Neither does anyone else.
The fire crawls up the structure, seeking Marcus’s body. When it reaches the white cloth, Kari steps forward from her position. Her voice rings out, clear and strong.
“May your path be straight.”
Ben responds from the south point, “May your run be true.”
Devon and Wyatt complete it from east and west, in tandem: “May the moon guide you home.”
The entire pack joins in, a sound that isn’t quite howl, isn’t quite song. A low, resonant call that vibrates through the ground beneath my feet. Through my bones. Through my blood.
I don’t sing. But I feel it.
The fire reaches Marcus now, consuming the wrappings. The flames grow higher, hungrier. Heat pulses across my face. No one steps back. No one looks away.
On the clearing’s edge, Shadow Peak stands sentinel, a silent witness to Ash Hollow’s grief. They don’t participate. This isn’t their ritual to claim. But their presence matters.
Dane stands motionless beside me, firelight playing across his features. His face reveals nothing, but his scent tells a different story. Smoke. Rage. Resolve. The smell of an Alpha who will not break, but will not forget.
The cloth burns away. The flames take Marcus completely.
The silence that follows is heavy, reverent. The fire crackles, sending sparks into the gray morning sky.
Derek steps forward, his face carved from grief and something harder. He faces the flames, voice rough. “Marcus taught me border patrol techniques when I first joined Ash Hollow. Showed me how to read the wind, track movement through snow.” His jaw works. “He was manipulated. We all were. But he broke free.”
Torres moves beside him, shoulders back despite the exhaustion in his eyes. “He died protecting what he thought he was fighting for. Protecting Kyle—one of yours.” He looks at me. “That’s who he really was.”
Elena’s voice carries clear across the circle. “He showed us how to choose pack over pride.” Her hands clench at her sides. “Even when it cost him everything.”
Mateo speaks next, young but steady. “Marcus saved Kyle. One of Dane’s wolves. That’s who Marcus really was—not the wolf Phil twisted him into. The one who chose death over betraying his pack.”
The other wolves who’d followed Marcus share memories—not defensive justifications, just honest truths. Training sessions. Late-night watches. Stories from Storm Ridge, from the years before Ash Hollow. Wyatt tells of running patrol with Marcus as teenagers, learning to track together. The moments that made Marcus who he was—long before Faelan’s manipulation ever touched him.
From my side of the circle, Wyatt clears his throat. “Marcus questioned when questioning was needed.” He meets Derek’s eyes across the flames. “Asked the hard questions none of us wanted to hear.”
Ben adds, voice low but carrying, “Followed when following was right. Died when dying saved lives.” He pauses, watching the fire consume what remains. “That’s all any of us can do.”
Kyle steps forward—young, alive because Marcus died in his place. His voice shakes but holds. “I stayed loyal to Dane. Marcus died protecting me anyway.” He looks at Derek, at Torres, at the others. “That’s pack. That’s what pack means.”
