Setting Free

Chapter 6: The Weight of Waiting

The morning air was thick with movement—footsteps echoing down polished halls, barked orders spilling through once-quiet doors. Sofia had barely rolled out of bed before the rhythm of strategy had taken over the packhouse, a heartbeat louder than any she’d known.

By the time she made it downstairs, the change was unmistakable.

The Moon Packhouse no longer resembled the serene home she’d grown up in.

Marble floors gleamed beneath muddy bootprints. Gilded mirrors reflected the red s***h of ink across battle maps pinned where paintings once hung. The chandeliers still sparkled, casting soft golden light—but it flickered now over weapons laid out on velvet runners and sealed envelopes passed between messengers.

The great house—built to impress, to awe—was shifting. Opulence hadn’t been stripped away, but it felt… wrong now. Misplaced. Like a ballroom wearing armor.

Runners moved through the halls like veins—young wolves with rolled up maps clutched in their fists, vanishing into rooms that had once been used for tea and song.

And in the corners, warriors waited. Quiet. Watchful. From other packs, by the cut of their coats and the color of their tattoos. They stood with their backs straight and eyes sharp, absorbing the beauty of the Moon estate with reverence—before it became battlefield.

Sofia paused in the hallway, one hand brushing the velvet of the bannister, still warm from sunlight.

Her breath caught.

It was happening.

And she had no idea what to do with herself.

She stood near the hallway, silent but watchful, as the packhouse pulsed with purpose.

Pill moved through the war room like gravity—everything and everyone pulled toward him. His voice was steady, his presence unwavering, even as maps unfurled and reports piled high. Orders left his mouth like scripture—measured, precise. Calm in the center of a storm.

Dakota stood beside him, a quieter force. His words were low, reserved for his eldest son alone. He was there not to lead—but to remind.

Xochi was the first sibling to arrive. Sharp-eyed, older, efficient. Her movements clipped with focus as she slipped through the door without hesitation, a thick leather binder tucked beneath one arm. She didn’t linger. When she emerged, she gave Sofia a single nod—tight, somber—but her gaze softened for a moment as it passed over her.

Nayeli, came next, moving with quiet elegance—fitting, for someone named after their grandmother. She pressed a kiss to Pill’s cheek and handed him a sealed file, the dark blue label of diplomatic command. Then she turned to her Mate, Lucio, and whispered something only he heard. Together, they vanished into the next hallway—Lucio’s hand resting lightly on the small of her back, his eyes scanning the perimeter until the very last second.

Alexander’s entrance cracked the packhouse open. He threw the door wide, bounding in like a storm—voice already mid-sentence. Esella, his Mate, followed in stride, their conversation layered with urgency about a vulnerable clan near Durango. Pill nodded once and motioned to the map—assigned them a detachment of warriors without missing a beat. They left just as fast.

Ella followed with her usual blaze. No one moved like her—swaggering confidence over quiet fire. Mason, her Mate, flanked her shoulder. She was smiling, oddly, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“We’ve got the southern ridge,” she announced.

Pill didn’t even look up. “Take twenty more with you.”

“You got it,” she chirped, disappearing down the hallway with Mason next to her.

Then came Chloe and Dalton—the youngest before Sofia. Chloe moved like water, her calm belying the deadly precision behind it. Marcos, her Mate, handled communications with the Northern packs, tablet in one hand, earpiece in the other. Dalton, barely twenty, still held the wide-eyed hunger of youth. Ari, his Mate, was quieter but steelier—sharp as a blade wrapped in velvet. They listened, nodded, and left as a unit—determination and Pill’s instructions stitched into every step.

Behind it all, Eliza moved with the efficiency of a general cloaked in grace. She was everywhere—checking inventory, overseeing incoming shipments, confirming medical supplies and ration plans with eerie precision. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. When she passed Sofia, she gave her a soft look, fingers brushing her shoulder like a promise: You're not forgotten. But the world is moving.

Sofia stood motionless at the edge of it all—watching her family fall into formation like the war was already underway. No shouting. No chaos. Just motion. Strategic and inevitable.

The packhouse had become a living thing. A war machine of memory and blood.

And every beat of it ran through her family.

But Sofia remained at the edge of it all. Not invisible. But untouched.

She wasn’t idle. She’d tried.

Three times she’d approached Pill—each time interrupted. A scout with new intel. A messenger with urgent letters. One of her siblings stepping in with a report that couldn’t wait. Pill had glanced at her with apology, each time, and promised, "In a minute, Sofia." But the minute never came.

And when she’d finally asked Ella what she could do, she’d just smiled and said, “Don’t worry about it, Sofi. Pill will let you know when it’s time.”

But what if it was already time?

She moved along the perimeter of the war room like shadow—present, aware, but never pulled in. A nod here. A brief glance there. Smiles, mostly. The kind people give to children when they want them to feel included, without actually being invited in.

She heard it all: troop placements, terrain strategies, message routes. Her siblings moved like blades—efficient, honed. Her mother’s voice cut through the noise like wind snapping through silk. Pill gave commands like he was born with them in his blood. Everyone moved.

Everyone except her.

She wasn’t twelve. She wasn’t breakable. She wasn’t just their youngest sister with their shared legacy in her blood—she was strong. Fast. She’d trained, harder than most. She could become wind, talon, claw. But no one saw it. No one asked.

And when she tried to speak—no one had time to listen.

Eventually, she walked outside because she couldn’t breathe.

The courtyard vibrated with motion—barking voices, ringing steel, the buzz of two-way radios. Warriors strapped blades to thighs. Messengers tore off on motorcycles, kicking up dust and orders behind them. Even the sky looked strained—gray and waiting.

Sofia’s hands curled into fists at her sides.

The world was shifting, tilting, and everyone else had found their place inside the new rhythm. Except her.

She wasn’t scared. She wasn’t fragile. She was ready.

But all they saw was a little girl. And she was so sick of waiting.

So, she went to the training ring.

She didn’t ask for a partner. She didn’t need one.

Her fists found the heavy bag like they’d been starving for it—every strike a question she was never allowed to ask.

Why not me?

Again.

What are you waiting for?

Again.

Do you think I won’t bleed for this family too?

Again. Again. Again.

Sweat dripped into her eyes. Her knuckles throbbed. Still she didn’t stop.

She couldn’t. Not until the silence stopped hurting.

She paced the training room like a caged thing—tight steps, clenched fists, breath sharp at the edges. Her skin buzzed with a restless heat, something too big for her bones. It sat under her ribs like pressure, coiled and coiling.

Her thoughts knotted around a single, pulsing thread:

Do something. Be something. Prove you’re more than the one who waits.

Inside, orders were being handed down like prophecy. Outside, warriors sharpened blades and claimed their places in the coming storm.

And Sofia stood alone.

Not because she was unwilling.

But because no one had asked.

The training ring loomed behind her, the bag swaying gently from her last strike. Her muscles still trembled, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing she did in silence would ever be enough. Not while she remained at the edge of it all, unseen.

The ache in her chest wasn’t fear.

It was fury. Not at her family. Not even at the war.

But at the possibility—the unbearable possibility—that when the world turned and history remembered who stood tall and who fell, she’d be a footnote in her own bloodline.

A daughter who watched.

Not a wolf who rose.