Chapter 9: The Red Flags
1138 Words
Sofia and Eliza were halfway down the hall on their way to the kitchen when her father’s voice carried down the corridor, low and steady, from the direction of Pill’s office.
“Eliza, can you come in here?”
It wasn’t urgent.
But something in it made her mother stop mid-step.
Eliza’s fingers twitched once at her side—barely noticeable—and then she turned toward the sound without a word. Her face was unreadable. Her steps, measured.
The door shut softly behind her.
Sofia stood alone in the corridor.
The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was weighted. Stretched too thin.
The kind of silence that lived in a house that knew something was coming.
Curiosity stirred beneath her skin, but it wasn’t the kind that made you eager—it was the kind that made your stomach tighten. The kind that made you wish you could walk away, even as your feet started moving toward it.
She crept forward, each step slower than the last.
The stone floor, usually warm with magic and movement, felt cold beneath her bare feet. The light through the tall windows seemed dimmer here. Like even the sun knew not to listen.
Pill’s office loomed ahead—large, solid, and heavy with memory.
It felt like a mouth about to open.
She pressed close.
The thick wood muffled the voices inside, but she could make out the cadence. Her Pill’s low and steady, rumbling through like a steady desert rainstorm.
The door creaked.
Just a sliver.
And she slipped in through the crack, breath held tight in her chest.
What she saw rooted her to the floor.
Every inch of Pill’s office was packed—standing room only. Men and women from across the southern borders, Alphas from twenty-four different packs, filled the space. She recognized a few by name, others only by reputation. Power radiated off them in waves, thick and territorial.
No one noticed her in the shadows of the far corner, where she tucked herself behind tall shelves stacked with maps and archived scrolls. The air smelled like old paper and tension.
Her brother stood near the window, arms crossed, the weight of every soul outside resting on his shoulders. Dakota stood beside him, silent but alert.
Eliza had joined them, her brow furrowed as she leaned over the table. A massive map lay spread across it, pinned and marked until it looked like a wound. Red flags stabbed their way north, each one closer than the last.
“They’ve already cleared through five major packs,” Pill said, his voice calm but tight. “The scouts said the same thing each time—no survivors. Not even the children.”
The room shifted.
Not with sound, but with stillness.
A silence heavy enough to crush bone.
Sofia’s breath caught in her throat.
Her hands were curled at her sides, nails biting into her palms.
Not even the children.
She had trained for war. She had dreamed of purpose, of proving herself. But this wasn’t a dream. This was death. Entire bloodlines snuffed out like candles.
“They’re coming fast,” Pill continued. “If their pace holds, they’ll be at our borders within forty-eight hours.”
Someone swore under their breath. Another Alpha shifted uncomfortably. The firelight caught on silver in someone’s hair, the shine of a blade at someone’s belt. Small things. Familiar things. And suddenly they all looked fragile.
Sofia pressed further into the shadows, her heart thudding like it wanted out of her chest.
She watched Pill command the room like he was born for it. And he was. This—this weight, this strategy, this razor-edged control—this was the legacy he had been shaped for.
But her eyes found Dakota’s face.
He wasn’t speaking. He didn’t need to. The tension beneath his stillness said everything. The way he watched his son. The way his jaw clenched and unclenched. The way his hand hovered near Eliza’s shoulder, not touching, just close.
He had once carried this burden.
And now he had to watch his child carry it instead.
“We need to prepare for full-scale engagement,” Pill said. “I’m not assuming we’ll survive the first wave without casualties. We need to move our most vulnerable west—scatter them among our allied packs.”
Casualties.
Sofia’s stomach turned.
She had imagined strategy.
She hadn’t imagined body bags.
She hadn’t imagined her siblings bleeding out in the dirt.
Alpha Lorraine stepped forward. “We’ve already begun evacuation protocols. Our scouts will be on your border by dawn to help fortify.”
Others spoke after—offering warriors, healers, information. Someone murmured about retreat. Most dismissed the idea outright.
And through it all, Pill remained steady.
Listening. Calculating. Leading.
Sofia tried to steady her own breath. Tried to quiet the rising pulse in her throat. But a single truth had lodged itself behind her ribs like a blade:
This wasn’t about readiness anymore.
This was about survival.
And some of the people she loved—silent in her corner—might not survive.
She didn’t breathe. Just listened. Still and unseen.
Not a single person mentioned her.
No one looked her way.
She wasn’t a variable. Not yet.
But she would be.
The meeting began to dissolve. Chairs scraped against the floor. Papers were gathered with efficient hands. Voices lowered into murmurs as the room’s center of gravity shifted—strategy giving way to motion.
One by one, the Alphas filed out.
Dakota was among the first. He clapped Pill on the shoulder—just once, a touch heavy with something unsaid—then followed the Alphas through the door, his expression unreadable.
Eliza lingered a moment longer.
She touched Pill’s arm briefly, whispered something only he could hear, then stepped out with the last of the Alphas.
No one saw Sofia.
No one felt her presence like a pulse in the corner of the room.
Pill turned—likely expecting only bookshelves and scrolls behind him.
And then he saw her.
There was no shock in his eyes. No demand for explanation. Just a stillness, like he'd already known she was there. Like he’d felt her heartbeat beneath the rest of the room’s noise.
His gaze softened.
“You heard all of that?” he asked quietly.
Sofia stepped out from the shadows, her jaw set, fists tight at her sides. Her voice, when it came, was steel wrapped in silence.
“Yes.”
He didn’t respond right away.
Didn’t fill the space with comfort or correction.
He just nodded. Once.
But that nod said everything.
That he saw her.
That he understood.
That he carried the same weight—and had simply learned how to walk with it.
And now, it was her turn to carry it.
- Writer
