22. Sign
1030 Words
= Mikael =
By the time the last ledger was closed and the final reports were dismissed, my patience was hanging by a thread.
Being Alpha was never just about strength or dominance—any fool could bare their fangs and bark orders. No, it was this. Endless meetings. Disputes over borders that hadn’t shifted in decades. Patrol schedules, supply counts, discipline hearings, alliance negotiations. Every day was a quiet war fought with words instead of claws.
Today had been no different.
If anything, it had been worse.
Tomorrow night’s gathering loomed like a shadow at the back of my thoughts, and the pack planners had made sure I didn’t forget it for even a second. They’d cornered me the moment I stepped out of the council hall, scrolls and tablets in hand, voices overlapping as they sought confirmation on every last detail.
Seating arrangements. Ritual order. The announcement timing. Who would stand where, who would speak first, which elder would present the ceremonial chalice.
I could already imagine the reaction tomorrow—the ripple of shock, the murmurs, the stares. The inevitable tension when Amara would be introduced as my Luna. When her face was finally placed in the light, undeniable.
Amara of Gravemire.
Formerly of Gravemire.
An outcast.
There would be a commotion. I wasn’t naïve enough to pretend otherwise. Gravemire had left scars across too many packs, including my own. The moment the truth surfaced, emotions would ignite like dry timber.
But I wasn’t afraid.
If chaos followed, I would crush it.
If dissent rose, I would silence it.
I had chosen Amara knowing exactly what it would cost me—and what it would cost the pack. And I was prepared to pay both prices.
The sun was already dipping low when I finally left the Alpha Hall, molten gold bleeding into the western horizon.
Lorne fell into step beside me without a word, his presence easy, practiced. The path toward my cabin wound through the edge of the territory, trees thickening as stone gave way to soil. The scent of pine and earth filled the air, cool and grounding.
“She’s been studying,” I said eventually, breaking the quiet. “Veyrath customs. Laws. Pack history.”
Lorne nodded. “Every free moment she has.”
I glanced at him. “And?”
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “She’s doing well. Better than most who are born into it, honestly.”
That eased something in me I hadn’t realized was coiled so tightly.
“She asks questions,” he continued. “The right ones. Not just memorizing rules—she wants to understand why they exist. How they shape the pack.”
That sounded like her.
“She’s careful with the others,” Lorne added. “Respected. Keeps her distance but doesn’t shrink.”
“Good,” I said quietly.
“She fits,” Lorne said simply. “If anyone didn’t know her history, they’d already be calling her Luna behind your back.”
Relief settled deep in my chest, warm and unfamiliar.
Later, then.
Later I would tell her everything—how the night would unfold, where she would stand, what the pack would expect of her once the words were spoken aloud. I needed her prepared. Not because I doubted her strength, but because Veyrath could be unforgiving to the unready.
We reached the clearing where my cabin stood just as the last light slipped behind the trees. Warm lanterns glowed along the porch, casting soft illumination across the familiar structure.
I expected the scent of food the moment we stepped closer.
Expected to hear the faint clink of dishes, the soft rhythm of movement inside.
Amara was always waiting.
She had never said it outright, but I knew she used those moments—quiet dinners, shared silence—to anchor herself. To remind herself that this place, this life, was real.
But tonight, there was nothing.
No sound.
No scent.
The quiet hit me wrong immediately.
I slowed, unease threading through my spine.
“Amara?” I called as I stepped onto the porch.
No answer.
The door opened easily beneath my hand, the cabin greeting me with stillness. The lanterns inside were lit, just as she always left them at dusk.
But the dining table was untouched.
No plates. No warmth lingering in the air. No sign of her careful presence.
My chest tightened.
“Amara,” I called again, louder this time.
Nothing.
The silence wasn’t unfamiliar—I’d lived with it long before she arrived—but now it felt wrong. Hollow. As though something essential had been stripped from the space.
I moved through the cabin quickly, checking each room with growing urgency. Her room was neat, bed untouched. No discarded cloak. No boots by the door.
“She’s not here,” Lorne said quietly from behind me.
I already knew.
My mind leapt to the worst conclusion before I could stop it.
She ran.
The thought hit like a blade.
But it didn’t make sense.
We had spoken—really spoken. About Gravemire. About revenge. About the long game. About the role she would play, and the power she would wield beside me.
She hadn’t looked like someone planning to flee.
She’d looked like someone bracing herself for war.
“She wouldn’t leave like this,” I said, more to myself than to Lorne.
“Agreed,” he replied. “There’s no sign of struggle either.”
That didn’t ease my tension.
“Get the patrols moving,” I ordered, my voice sharpening. “Quietly. I don’t want panic spreading.”
Lorne straightened immediately. “Every sector?”
“Every sector,” I confirmed. “And I want eyes on the borders.”
He hesitated only a second. “If she did leave—”
“She didn’t,” I cut in.
Not willingly.
Not after everything.
Lorne nodded and turned to leave, already issuing orders through the link.
I stood alone in the cabin, fists clenched at my sides, the silence pressing in on me like a held breath.
Tomorrow was supposed to be a beginning.
Instead, the night had delivered a question.
- Writer
