I let the words settle, feeling the weight of them. Then I speak, my voice cutting through the crackle of flames.
“He was pack.” I meet every eye around the circle—Derek’s, Torres’s, Elena’s, Mateo’s. “He died pack. That’s what matters. That’s what we remember.”
Derek’s shoulders relax incrementally. Torres exhales, something releasing in his chest. By the ceremony’s end, they stand with us—not apart, not divided, but together. Marcus’swolves and mine, one pack again. United by shared grief and the honesty of who Marcus really was.
Reyna moves closer to Derek. Not touching, but present. He doesn’t pull away.
Someone shifts forms behind me, wolf shape sliding into place with a soft rush of sound. Then another. And another. The sound builds as more of the pack drop to four legs, fur rippling in the growing firelight.
They don’t howl. They watch, eyes reflecting the flames, bodies pressed close together. Not in submission, but in unity.
The fire roars, reaching for the sky, and in that moment, I am pack too.
Chapter 45
Dane
Istay rooted at the edge of the clearing as the fire dies down. Ash drifts through the air, settling on my shoulders, in my hair. I don’t brush it away.
The pack remains still—a frozen tableau of grief and respect. No one speaks. No one needs to. The only sounds are the dying crackle of embers and the soft rustling of pine bows overhead.
I give a single nod, releasing them from the circle. They break away slowly, shoulders relaxing incrementally as the ritual’s formality eases.
Wyatt is the first to move with purpose. He pulls a flask from inside his jacket, takes a small sip, then passes it to Devon. Someone produces a cloth bag of bread, torn into chunks.Simple food for after death. An old tradition; life continues, bodies need sustenance.
The wolves who shifted during the ceremony ease back into human form, muscles rippling under skin as they rejoin the group. They dress quickly, silently. The wolves with angel blood use the magic taught to them by the angels to weave clothes around them; then they do the same for the non-angelic ones. The tension hasn’t disappeared, but it’s changing shape—from sharp grief to something more sustainable.
Nova stands a few paces from me. Close enough that I feel her presence, far enough to give me room to be what the pack needs right now. Her eyes track movement at the forest’s edge.
Shadow Peak’s delegation waits there—a respectful distance, but present. Witnesses to our loss. To our strength.
Caleb steps forward first, crossing the invisible line between observer and participant. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. His presence says enough: I see you. I honor your dead. I stand with you.
I meet his eyes, acknowledge him with the barest tilt of my chin.
“Marcus never hesitated,” Ryder says suddenly, voice rough with smoke and emotion. “Not for a second. He saw Faelan coming for Kyle and just ... moved. Pure instinct to protect.”
Near the treeline, Rafe stands with Ansel, their voices low in quiet conversation. Kari’s path takes her past them as she moves to check the eastern watch post. Her steps don’t falter, but her spine stiffens. She doesn’t look in Rafe’s direction, but I catch the tight set of her jaw, the way her hands clench briefly at her sides.
Whatever’s driving her aversion to him, it’s getting stronger.
“That was Marcus,” Elena agrees quietly. “Always put others first.”
“He bought Kyle enough time to get clear,” Ryder continues, jaw tightening. “Kid would’ve been dead otherwise. Faelan knew exactly what he was targeting our weakest. Marcus knew it too.”
The silence that follows feels right. Marcus didn’t die from carelessness. He made a choice that defined exactly who he’d been all along.
The weight on my chest shifts—not lifting entirely, but changing position. Making room for what comes next. I scan the faces around me, noting each expression, each posture. My pack. Wounded but whole. Grieving but standing.
Ready.
I watch the flames die to embers, their orange glow casting long shadows across tired faces. Our circle remains unbroken, but the rigid formality begins to soften. Bodies shift. Shoulders relax. The ritual part is over.
Finn, one of the younger wolves from Shadow Peak, steps forward hesitantly. He clears his throat, drawing attention without demanding it.
“I remember the first time I met Marcus,” he says, voice steady despite his obvious nervousness. “It was just last year, when he first came to Shadow Peak. I was on border patrol—thought I knew what I was doing, you know? Caleb had given me some real responsibilities, so I figured I had it handled.”
A few heads turn, interest piqued.
