His expression flickered—something complicated I couldn't quite read—then smoothed back into easy humor. "Benefits of being the weird healer bear, I suppose."
There was something in his tone that made me glance at him again, but the firelight was shifting and his face was already turned away, focused on the meat he was turning over the flames.
I let it go. Daska was private about certain things, always had been. He'd joined our pack as a half-grown cub, orphaned after his mother was killed by a cave lion. My father had taken him in without hesitation and Daska had grown up among us, learned our ways, and once he’d grown earned his place a hundred times over as our healer.
But he wasn't a wolf. And no matter how many kills he shared or wounds he tended, there were moments—small ones, easy to miss if you weren't paying attention—where I caught him watching the rest of us with something quiet and careful in his eyes. Like he was measuring the distance between himself and belonging, and finding it just a fraction too far to cross.
I didn't like it. Never had. But I'd also never figured out how to fix it, because every time I tried to bring it up, Daska deflected with a joke or a shrug and the conversation moved on.
The fire popped, sending a shower of sparks toward the cave ceiling. I stretched my legs out and let the warmth soak into my aching muscles. Outside, the rain had settled into a steady downpour, the kind that would last through the night. Good. We were dry, fed, warm, and the meat was smoking nicely. Gradually the conversation drifted from mating to hunting stories to speculation about whether the spring gathering would have better trade goods this year.
The fire burned low. The storm drew closer, the wind picking up outside the cave entrance. I found myself drifting in and out of the conversation, content to listen more than speak, watching my pack with satisfaction.
Good hunt. Everyone safe. This is what matters.
Then, from somewhere to the west, a howl split the air.
Every one of us went still.
I knew that voice.
"Broken Ridge," Jarak said quietly, and his hand went to the knife at his belt. The Broken Ridge pack—named for the shattered escarpment that dominated their territory to the north. I'd recognize that particular harmonic anywhere. Their alpha, Karik, had a howl like grinding stone, and his wolves echoed it, harsh and discordant —at least four more wolves, maybe five, their voices carrying clear across the open ground.
"They're closer than they should be," Miska added, tension sharpening her voice.
I stood slowly, scanning the western horizon through the cave entrance. Nothing moved that I could see, but that meant nothing. Broken Ridge pack were sneaky bastards—dishonourable fighters who ambushed rather than challenged openly, who stole kills and pushed boundaries until you had nochoice but to push back. We'd had three skirmishes with them in the past year. None of them had ended well.
"What do we do?" Fen asked, his voice tight.
I considered for a moment, weighing options. "We can't take the main route home."
"Why not?" Torin frowned. "Hanging Stone lands are four days east. We push hard, we're back in three."
"River's running high from the spring melt," I said. "Main crossing will be mud and ice, and slow going. Broken Ridge knows that route—they'll be watching the crossing points, and we're loaded down with meat. Easy pickings."
"So what, we wait them out?" Jarak's tone made it clear what he thought of that idea.
"No. We take the northern route first, then swing east. Higher ground, harder terrain. They won't expect it, and we can move faster without worrying about ambush at the crossing."
Miska made a frustrated sound. "That's half the distance again. And it’ll take us along the other river. It doesn’t get as high as the main one, but with this storm, it could be hard going."
"I'm not losing meat or packmates to prove we're brave," I said, my tone carrying the weight of alpha command. "We go north at first light. Avoid contact, then head east and get home safe with our kills."
They didn't argue. After a moment, Torin nodded. "You're alpha."
Damn right I am.
I did one more patrol before full dark—circling wide in wolf form, checking for threats, marking our temporary territory out of habit more than need.
That's when I caught it.
A scent on the wind that made my hackles rise and my lips pull back from my teeth.
Sharp. Clean.Wrong.
Not blood or smoke or hide or earth. Not anything natural I'd ever encountered. It was almost like the air after lightning, but without the storm. And underneath—something sweet that wasn't flower or fat or fermentation.
I circled, trying to track it, but the wind shifted and it vanished.
