"I know a lot about everything on this mountain." I didn't say it with pride — just fact. Seven years of obsessive research had made me an expert on Denali's ecosystem, its weather patterns, its dangers. I'd needed to understand it. The visions had demanded it.
"We follow the tracks," I said. "Cal, can you—"
He was already moving, nose to the ground, following the trail his pack had left behind.
The sun was starting to sink toward the horizon when we found the kill site.
A caribou carcass, frozen solid, half-buried in snow. The marks on it were unmistakable — teeth, claws, the messy violence of a pack hunt. Cal circled it once, twice, then sat back on his haunches and howled.
The sound echoed off the peaks, mournful and searching.
No answer came.
"They've been surviving," James said quietly, examining the remains. "Hunting. Working together."
"Barely." Neal crouched beside the carcass, his medical training evident in the way he studied the bones. "Look at this. They stripped everything — marrow, organs, scraps that a healthy pack would leave behind. These wolves are starving."
My chest tightened. Starving wolves were desperate wolves. Unpredictable. The pack Cal remembered — might not be the same pack we found.
Years of isolation could change anyone. Could break anyone.
"We keep moving," I said. "Stay alert."
We made camp as darkness fell.
There was no question of traveling at night — not on this terrain, not at this altitude. One wrong step could mean a broken leg, a fall, death. The mountain didn't forgive mistakes.
James set up the tents while Neal inventoried our medical supplies. I sat at the edge of camp, watching Cal pace the perimeter. He hadn't settled since we stopped. Couldn't seem to hold still, his body vibrating with energy that made my own nerves sing in sympathy.
"He's getting worse," Neal said quietly, settling beside me. "His stress levels are through the roof. Whatever he's feeling through that pack connection, it's hitting him hard."
"They're close. He can feel it." I wrapped my arms around my knees. "He's been carrying this guilt for years, Neal. The not knowing. Now he's close enough to sense them again, and everything's coming back."
Neal was quiet for a moment. The stars were emerging overhead, sharp and bright in the thin mountain air.
"How do you do it?" he asked.
"Do what?"
"Carry all of this." He gestured vaguely — at Cal, at James emerging from the tent, at the wilderness stretching endlessly around us. "The bonds. The responsibility. The weight of everyone depending on you."
I thought about it. The honest answer was that I didn't know — that some days I felt like I was barely holding on, that the bonds were as much burden as gift.
"I don't carry it alone," I said instead. "That's the whole point. The bonds go both ways."
Neal's expression flickered. Something complicated moving behind his eyes.
"I haven't been," he said quietly. "Carrying you. I've been running. Hiding behind protocol because the alternative terrified me."
"I know."
"I'm sorry."
"I know that too." I reached out, touched his hand. Felt the bond between us pulse — warm, tentative, still finding its shape. "You're here now. That's what matters."
He didn't pull away.
James joined us, settling on my other side, and for a while we just sat together. Three people and a wolf, huddled against the cold, watching the stars.
