Setting Free

Chapter 3: Shadows Beneath

The Moon Packhouse came into view just past dusk, lit from within like a lantern—soft, golden light pouring through tall windows, spilling across the stone steps and into the dark. The central fountain sang gently at the entrance, water catching the last threads of daylight as it shimmered into dusk. Marble gleamed under the headlights of their SUV, every line of the packhouse designed to impress—and to remind.

Sofia stepped out of the car and breathed it in. Home. The scent of mesquite, wind-worn stone, lavender, and familiar magic. Cool air danced through the manicured trees lining the drive, brushing against the tiled walkway that led to the grand arched doors. The high façade, flanked by dark terracotta rooftops and elegant columns, loomed like a fortress built for kings—but inside, it was warm.

Her mother’s presence beside her felt grounding, but not heavy. Ariana trailed behind them, still sleepy from the drive, her curls pinned up and her face flushed with the kind of peace that only came after too many days of being watched.

Inside, the packhouse was alive with sound—low laughter, the distant clatter of dishes, the hum of wolves moving about in soft conversation. The grand foyer unfurled around them: twin staircases curling upward beneath an ornate domed ceiling, the chandelier overhead casting delicate constellations of light across white marble floors. Gilded railings and deep wood tones framed every edge, old paintings and Ixchele artifacts nestled into alcoves with reverence.

Families gathered near the hearth. Children raced through the upper halls. Warriors passed through the entrance with nods and easy smiles.

To strangers, it might feel like a palace for royalty.

To the Moon Pack, it was just home.

At the center of it all was the Moon family.

Not all of them, of course. Only the ones still under this roof.

Pill—firstborn, Alpha now—was likely in his office. His Mate, Suri, was visiting her parents in Ohio, but their four children remained. Samuel, calm and thoughtful like his father. Katherine, fiery and bold. Ariana, just stepping out of the black SUV, behind Sofia, all innocent wonder and kindness. And Lincoln, the youngest, was quick with both his temper and his loyalty.

Dakota still lingered in the halls, a shadow of his former Alpha self—quiet, sturdy, ever-present. The pack respected him like a monument. And Eliza… Eliza was still a flame in a world of kindling.

Sofia moved through the front hall like smoke—quiet, unseen by most. She didn’t want questions. Not yet. Just a breath of stillness before the next conversation.

But the front door opened again before she could make it past the main staircase.

Footsteps. A familiar rhythm.

Sofia turned.

And froze.

“Pacer?” she said, blinking.

There he was—taller than she remembered, broader too, but unmistakably her brother. His sun-warmed skin held a desert hue, his black curls tousled by wind, his green eyes bright beneath thick lashes. There was a strength to him now that hadn’t been there before—not just physical, though that was undeniable—but something deeper. Alpha steel, tempered and sure.

He grinned when he saw her. “Little Sofia.”

She ran to him. He caught her in his arms and lifted her off the ground like nothing.

“You aren't supposed to come up for another two weeks,” she said as he set her down.

He sobered slightly. “But something came up.”

Before she could ask what, another figure stepped through the door.

Alejandro.

Her grandfather.

The old Alpha of the Peralta Pack looked like he’d been carved from stone and sun—tall, broad-shouldered, with silver-streaked hair and storm-colored eyes. His beard was trimmed close, but it didn’t soften the sharp angles of his face. Time had kissed him gently, lining him without diminishing him.

“Mi estrella,” he said, voice low and warm.

Sofia melted into his arms.

He held her like she was still five years old, like he hadn’t aged a day.

When he pulled back, he studied her face like it held some secret he needed to remember.

“You’ve grown fierce,” he said softly. “Your mother was always fire, but you—” he tapped her chest, “—you burn slower. But deeper.”

Sofia smiled. “You say that like it’s a warning.”

Alejandro laughed, the sound rich and easy. “No, niña. Like a prophecy.”

Eliza stepped forward then, her expression unreadable but her voice steady. “What brings you here, Alejandro?”

Alejandro’s eyes flicked briefly to Pacer.

“Nothing urgent,” he said. “Just... time to talk.”

Sofia narrowed her eyes. That was a lie. She could feel it in her chest. Her family didn’t lie often, but when they did—it was always to protect the people around them.

“We’d like to wait until after dinner to speak with Pill,” Pacer said, softer now. “No need to stir the whole house just yet.”

Eliza nodded slowly.

“Come in, then,” she said. “You know where the good whiskey is.”

Pacer grinned and slipped an arm around Sofia’s shoulders. “Is there any other kind in this house?”

They moved deeper into the packhouse together, past laughing children and flickering fireplaces. Alejandro’s hand brushed Sofia’s back as they walked—a silent comfort, a reminder that she was not alone.

Later, dinner shimmered with quiet splendor.

The Moon Pack’s formal dining hall, once built to dazzle foreign Alphas, still did its job well. Crystal chandeliers glowed like captured stars above polished marble. Pale gold curtains framed tall windows. The floors gleamed beneath long linen-draped tables, every place setting precise, elegant, and warm.

Children chattered down one end of the room. Wolves laughed over second helpings. Someone played soft piano from the far wall, the melody floating like wind through a canyon.

At the central table, the Moon family was gathered.

Pill sat at the head—broad-shouldered and steady-eyed, his presence carved from the same ironwood as his father’s. Eliza and Dakota flanked him, quiet pillars of the empire they’d once ruled. Sofia sat beside Ariana, both of them half-listening to the current debate over spice blends and hunting routes. Pacer leaned back in his chair with lazy charm, and Alejandro—ever the proud grandfather—filled the space with stories and warmth.

No one mentioned the reason for their arrival.

They passed the bread. They laughed at old jokes. Alejandro teased Dakota about aging poorly, and Dakota only smirked, flicking a glance toward Eliza.

“Some of us age like sun-dried oak,” Alejandro said, lifting a glass. “Others just... rot slower.”

That earned a round of laughter.

Sofia smiled, but there was something off in the set of her brother’s shoulders. A tautness behind his charm. And Alejandro, for all his warmth, hadn’t touched his tequila.

It didn’t go unnoticed.

When the meal ended and the servers cleared the tables, Pill rose quietly and gave a single nod.

The other men stood without needing a word.

Dakota clapped Pacer on the back as they left, and Eliza watched them go with a look that was more instinct than curiosity.

Sofia leaned toward her. “What’s going on?”

Eliza didn’t answer at first. Just took a long sip of her drink.

“Something serious,” she finally said. “But they’re trying not to start a fire before they know what direction the wind is blowing.”

☽

Pill’s office was on the north wing of the estate, where the ceilings were lower and the halls quieter. Once, this had been Dakota’s domain—his command center, his war room, the place where maps had been spread and treaties drafted, where the future of the pack had been carved from blood and stone.

Now it belonged to his son.

The room hadn’t changed much. Leather armchairs. Old wood desk. Maps along the wall, some historical, some current. Books stacked with precision. No frills. Just purpose.

It was masculine, spare, and sharp.

Pill went to stand behind the desk, arms folded, as the other three entered. He waited until the door clicked shut before speaking.

“You’ve both come a long way,” he said. “What’s the news?”

Alejandro’s face—so often warm—was unreadable now.

“We didn’t want to speak during dinner,” he said quietly. “We don’t want to stir fear. Not yet.”

Pacer leaned forward, palms braced on the desk.

“There’s a tribe from the south,” he said. “From the deep jungle. Isolated. That's causing some concerns.”

Pill’s brow furrowed. “A wolf pack?”

“No,” Alejandro said. “Not wolves.”

Dakota sat down, the first to do so. “Then who?”

“Ixchele,” Alejandro said. “Or... something like them.”

The room went still.

Pill straightened. “That’s not possible. The mountain Ixchele line was destroyed—grandmother's tribe was the last. When the wolves turned them to ash, that was the end of the Ixchele, wasn’t it? Nayeli’s bloodline—our bloodline—was all that remained.”

“So we thought,” Alejandro said. “But it seems they’ve been hiding. Deeper than anyone imagined.”

“They call themselves Tetzahuitl Ixchele,” Pacer added. “And they don’t come in peace.”

Pill’s voice was low. “Divine Ixchele. Quite the name,” he said, having learned the Ixchele language from their Uncle Metztli, the last Ixchele. Well, not anymore.

“How do you know they don't come in peace,” he asked, taking a seat behind his desk.

“We had scouts far south, making sure things were still ok down there. Two scouts went silent. One of them made it back long enough to report—before collapsing. Said he saw warriors. Not wolves. Shifting like us.”

“They moved like air,” Alejandro said. “Shifted into birds. Big cats. Owls. And not just once—back and forth. Effortless.”

Pill’s breath caught.

“The southern clans call them Naguales. Monsters,” Pacer continued.

Dakota’s eyes darkened. “Nagiales are just stories. Children’s tales.”

“Not anymore,” Alejandro said. “They’re real. And they’ve decided to stop hiding.”

There was silence again.

Pill turned toward the maps on the wall, his gaze narrowing on the southern border. “And what do they want?”

Pacer hesitated. “We don’t know yet. But from what we’ve seen? They don’t seem interested in alliance.”

Alejandro rose from his seat, his tone suddenly harder. “We thought the wolves had wiped out the Ixchele. That only whispers survived. But it seems the jungle remembered. And now it’s waking.”

Dakota ran a hand through his silver hair, eyes distant. “So they’re not like Nayeli’s people.”

“No,” Pacer said quietly. “They’re not like Nayeli. Not like Metztli. Not like Mom.”

He stood tall behind the desk, but his fingers curled briefly on the polished wood. A beat of silence. Then he lifted his chin. “Then we prepare. Quietly. No fear. No rumors,” Pill said as he looked back at the others, voice steady.

Alejandro nodded. “May the Goddess stay with us.”

Outside, the wind whispered through the eaves of the packhouse.

And deep in the south, where stories were born and gods forgotten, something ancient stirred.