CHAPTER 9
1195 Words
Adrian’s POV
A full week in Silvercrest had taught me more than I expected.
Not about politics or military strength—those were obvious within the first day. Silvercrest Pack valued power that could be seen and measured, strength that announced itself before being questioned. Their warriors trained hard, their leaders spoke decisively, and their hierarchy was rigidly observed. Respect was not something one earned quietly here; it was something demanded through presence.
But after seven days, what stood out to me most was not how Silvercrest showed strength.
It was how little space they left for softness.
The final morning dawned cool and pale, mist curling low over the pack grounds as the last of the visiting packs prepared for departure. Silvercrest was already awake. Omegas moved efficiently between buildings, clearing the remains of the week’s festivities. The Warriors ran their final drills, muscles loose and ready, as if proving—one last time—that they were exactly what their reputation claimed.
I watched it all from the edge of the training field, arms folded behind my back, posture relaxed but attentive.
This place was impressive.
And exhausting.
Riverline Pack had settled easily into the week’s routine. We adapted the way we always did—quietly, without spectacle. My father handled formal discussions with steady authority, never raising his voice, never posturing. Our warriors trained with discipline rather than aggression, focused more on coordination than dominance.
By the last day, Silvercrest no longer looked at us as outsiders.
They looked at us in comparison.
That alone had shifted the air.
And through every day of the gathering, Aria Williams remained unchanged.
She did not seek attention as curiosity grew around her. She did not shrink from it either. She walked through Silvercrest as she always had—measured, composed, eyes forward, shoulders steady. If the whispers reached her ears, she gave no sign. If the glances weighed on her, she carried them without complaint.
I have watched many wolves in many packs.
Very few moved like that.
Most adapted to survive by becoming sharper or louder. Aria had adapted by becoming still. That kind of stillness was not a weakness. It was restraint learned the hard way.
Over the course of the week, our conversations had grown natural, almost effortless.
Not long conversations.
Not intimate ones.
But honestly.
On the second day, we spoke near the pack hall while elders debated alliances inside. She asked about Riverline—what it was like to grow up there, how leadership was taught, whether authority was earned or inherited.
I told her the truth. That Riverline believed leadership was a responsibility, not a right. That my father had never raised me to expect obedience—only accountability. That strength, to us, meant being trusted enough that wolves followed without fear.
She listened closely, absorbing every word.
On the fourth day, we spoke again while walking near the outer grounds, where the land opened into rolling hills. She told me she liked places like that—spaces where the sky felt wider, where it was easier to think. She said she found the crowds overwhelming, not because she feared them, but because noise made it difficult to hear herself.
I understood that more than I let on.
By the sixth day, conversation no longer felt like effort. We spoke about books, about learning styles, about the differences between observing and participating. She admitted she preferred understanding people before trusting them. I told her I believed trust was built through consistency, not promises.
At no point did the bond demand more.
It remained present, steady, and patient.
The final day felt reflective rather than tense. Silvercrest had done its duty as host. Visiting packs prepared to leave, wagons packed, guards assigned. The sense of competition faded, replaced by something quieter—evaluation.
Who was impressed?
Who was disappointed?
Who would be remembered?
I found Aria near the lantern-lined path as Riverline prepared to depart. Her friends stood nearby, giving us space without being asked. That, too, told me something about her—about the kind of loyalty she inspired simply by existing.
When she saw me approach, she didn’t brace herself.
She didn’t smile brightly either.
She waited.
I greeted her calmly, the way we always did.
She asked if Riverline was ready to leave. I confirmed we were. There was a pause—not uncomfortable, not heavy.
Then she spoke again, quietly.
“This week felt longer than I expected.”
“In a good way?” I asked.
She considered it. “In a meaningful way.”
I nodded. “I felt the same.”
We stood there for a moment, the noise of departure swelling around us. I could feel the distance that would soon stretch between our packs—not emotionally, but physically. Roads were long. Territories were wide.
I chose my words carefully.
“I don’t want the distance to undo what we’ve started,” I said. “Not because of the bond—but because understanding takes time, and silence can erase progress.”
She looked at me then, really looked at me.
“You want to stay in contact,” she said.
“Yes,” I replied. “Regularly. Letters, messengers—whatever you’re comfortable with. No pressure. No expectations attached.”
She was quiet for a moment.
I did not rush her.
Finally, she nodded. “I’d like that.”
Relief settled into my chest—not sharp, not overwhelming. Just steady.
“Good,” I said simply.
There was nothing more that needed to be said.
When Riverline finally departed, Silvercrest’s gates closing behind us, I felt the tension lift in a way I hadn’t fully noticed before. The land itself seemed to breathe differently beyond their borders.
The road home was familiar, winding through forests and open plains. My father rode beside me in silence for a time, as he often did when he was thinking.
Eventually, he spoke—not about politics, not about alliances—but about patience.
He said some bonds were tested not by distance, but by how one handled them.
I understood what he meant.
Back in the Riverline, life resumed its rhythm. Training schedules were reinstated. Council matters demanded attention. The pack welcomed us home with warmth and familiarity.
And yet, even as routine settled back into place, something had changed.
Not dramatically.
Not visibly.
But undeniably.
That night, as the stars stretched across the sky and the pack quieted, I sat alone for a time, thoughts steady rather than restless. The bond hummed softly beneath my skin, no stronger than before—but no weaker either.
It did not demand I go back immediately.
It did not demand I claim.
It trusted the path we had chosen.
And so did I.
I will write to her soon. Not to speak of fate or bonds or promises, just pure conversation, understanding and consistency.
Because some connections did not need to be rushed.
They needed to be respected.
And if this bond was meant to last, then it would be built the right way—slowly, deliberately, one choice at a time.
- Writer
