“Any word from the outer scouts?” I ask.
Brooke shakes her head. “Nothing since the initial reports. But… Tessa, the rogues aren’t regrouping. They’re just gone. Like they never had structure at all.”
That’s not how packs fall apart. Not unless something forces them to.
“Archer did that,” I say quietly.
Conrad finally looks at me then. “Maybe.”
The uncertainty in that single word is worse than anything else. Time stretches. Minutes or hours—I can’t tell anymore.
The town stays ready but restless. People cluster in doorways, watching the tree line like it might answer them. Weapons stay in hand even when hands start to shake from holding them too long.
I keep moving. Checking perimeters. Reconfirming positions. Making sure no one is standing where they shouldn’t be if something breaks through. But nothing breaks through.
Instead, the forest starts to change.
Not visually. Instinctively. The tension in the air shifts, like something large and fast is moving through it. Not toward us yet. Just passing through. Heading away. Toward the river gorge. My breath catches.
“That direction,” I say.
Conrad hears me. “Yeah.”
I don’t wait for permission. I step off the porch and move toward the edge of town, stopping only when I reach the boundary where civilization ends and wild territory begins.
The trees are still. Too still. Then—distant movement. Not visible. Felt. Something is happening deeper in the forest.
“Archer,” I whisper.
No answer comes. I hate the way my mind immediately fills in the gaps—images of him injured, outnumbered, alone. I push them down hard. He doesn’t lose. He doesn’t. A shout rises from behind me.
“Tessa!”
Brooke again. I turn. She’s standing at the edge of the square, pointing toward the northern trail.
“There’s movement coming back,” she calls. “Not rogues. Our side.”
I don’t wait. I run.
The town behind me becomes noise and distance as I reach the outer path, boots hitting packed dirt, breath coming harder with every step.
More figures appear through the trees ahead—defenders returning in groups, scattered but moving with purpose now instead of urgency. And then I see it. Archer. He’s at the front.
Covered in river water and blood and exhaustion, but moving. Still moving. Every step forward is deliberate, like stopping isn’t an option he’s willing to consider. My body reacts before my mind does. I break into a run. He sees me at the same time.
Something in him shifts—subtle, but immediate. Like the weight he’s been carrying adjusts because I’m here. I reach him just as he crosses into the clearing. I look at him—really look. Injuries. Fatigue. Blood that isn’t all his. My throat tightens.
“You’re alive,” I say.
It comes out sharper than I intend.
His jaw flexes once. “Yes.”
Behind him, the last of the defenders filter in, some limping, some supporting others, but all present. All accounted for. Which means?—
“Damon?” I ask.
Archer’s expression changes. Just slightly. Enough.
