Setting Free

Chapter 11: The First to Fall

They came just as the sun began to sink below the horizon—rows of trucks and SUVs weaving along the road like a dark river. Dust curled behind the tires, catching the gold light, and the rumble of engines echoed across the cliffs like a warning.

Sofia stood at the edge of the entry drive, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

They looked like shadows and steel.

Wolves from Clearwater Moon—dozens of them, maybe more. Dressed in black and ash-gray, their movements were tight, efficient, and quiet. This wasn’t a caravan. It was an army. The kind promised long ago, when Eliza and Dakota had nothing but each other and a dream of survival.

And at the front of it all—was Suri.

The Moon Luna. Daughter of Liam Clearwater. Eliza’s first ally. The living proof that promises made in blood would not be forgotten.

Her hair—flame red, just like always—was braided down her back like a banner. She stepped from the lead truck with purpose in every movement. There was steel in her shoulders, a quiet force in her gaze. But when her eyes landed on Sofia, something gentled.

“Sofia,” she said, a soft smile blooming. “I heard we had visitors coming.”

Sofia’s grin was immediate. “Yeah, and they’re not here for tea.”

Suri laughed and pulled her into a brief, warm hug—one that held too much meaning to be casual.

“I’m glad to be home,” she said. “Let’s make sure we keep it standing.”

☽

By nightfall, the front lawn had transformed. The orchard. The gardens. The clearing behind the packhouse. Every inch of ground pulsed with movement.

Long folding tables had been pulled out of storage. Pack members moved in practiced rhythm—setting out trays of roasted meats and charred vegetables, baskets of cornbread, jugs of iced tea. Smoke from the fire pits drifted through the dark like offerings to the night sky.

The Moon Pack had always known how to feed its own.

Sofia worked her way through the crowd, ladling stew into bowls, hands aching from repetition—but the motion helped. It made her feel tethered. Like part of something.

She passed her mother near the fire pit. Eliza stood tall, the embers catching gold in her eyes, but Sofia could see the tension in the set of her jaw. Her gaze flicked south, again and again.

And then—it came.

Engines. Fast.

Louder than before. Not organized this time.

A different kind of arrival.

Sofia turned, ladle still in her hand, the scent of roasted meat forgotten.

The mood shifted instantly.

Conversations broke off mid-sentence. Bowls stilled in hands. Plates were set down, uneaten.

All heads turned toward the treeline—where a single truck tore out of the woods, engine roaring, tires spitting gravel like teeth.

It skidded to a halt just beyond the fire pits.

Pacer jumped from the driver’s side before it had fully stopped. Blood smeared across his shirt like a second skin. It ran down his arm from a gash too deep to close. His eyes were wild.

He yanked open the passenger door and reached in with shaking hands. When he emerged, he was cradling a limp body with his good arm.

Sofia’s breath caught.

Chucho.

Alejandro’s Beta. His brother.

His chest rose in ragged gasps, blood soaking through the front of his shirt in bright, blooming patches.

In the bed of the truck, more figures sat hunched and silent—men, women, children. Survivors from the Peralta Pack. Inés, Pacer’s Mate, was at the center of them, her arms wrapped around two wide-eyed children. One of them had blood on her nightgown.

“Pill!” Pacer’s voice cracked the night. “Mom!”

Eliza was already moving. Her braid trailed behind her like a banner in the wind as she sprinted across the lawn.

“Chucho,” she whispered, falling to her knees beside him. Her hands hovered, unsure where to touch first. There was too much blood.

“Tío, I’m here,” she said. Her voice broke like a prayer.

Chucho’s eyes fluttered open—just for a moment. “Gone,” he rasped, breath rattling. “All gone.”

“No,” Eliza whispered, pressing her palms to his chest. “Stay with me. I’m here. You’re not alone.”

Across the crowd, Pacer locked eyes with Pill. His mouth moved, but no words came at first. His throat bobbed as he tried again.

“They hit Peralta before we could finish evacuating,” he said. “There were so many—thousands.” He blinked hard. “We weren’t ready. Tata—”

He stopped.

He didn’t need to finish.

The silence that followed was thick and punishing.

Dakota stepped forward and gripped his son’s shoulder. The gesture said what words couldn’t: You did what you could. You came home.

“I got as many out as I could,” Pacer said, voice hoarse. “I couldn’t save them all.”

“You got him here,” Pill answered quietly. “That’s what matters now.”

Chucho stirred again.

His eyes snapped open, wild with a fear that didn’t belong to the dying—but to the hunted.

“He’s close,” he whispered. Each word scraped out like stone on bone. “He’s close.”

And then his body stilled.

Eliza’s hands trembled where they pressed into his blood-warm chest. “No,” she whispered.

But he was already gone.

A terrible silence fell—so thick it swallowed sound.

For a moment, no one moved.

The fire cracked. A breeze stirred the leaves above the courtyard. The faint clatter of a dropped bowl echoed like thunder in the distance.

And then—reality sank in.

Chucho was dead.

The Peralta Pack was gone.

And he—he—was close.

The moment fractured.

Eliza let out a sound that shattered through the marrow of the night. Not a cry. Not a scream. Something deeper. Something that tore through Sofia’s spine like lightning.

Her mother collapsed over Chucho’s chest, her face crumpled with grief, fingers fisted in his bloodied shirt, her body folding with the weight of grief she didn’t have time to carry.

Suri dropped beside her without a word, one steady hand on Eliza’s back. Holding her there. Grounding her with quiet strength.

Around them, no one dared speak.

Even the warriors looked stunned—frozen mid-motion, half-lifted forks and forgotten blades, breath caught in their lungs.

This wasn’t a warning.

This was a wound.

And then—Pill’s voice cut through the stillness like the crack of a whip.

“Everyone into position.”

He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to.

It was pure Alpha.

Suri stood first, no hesitation in her limbs. Her voice sliced through the panic like a blade: calm, clear, commanding. The courtyard erupted. Plates clattered to the ground. Chairs overturned. Warriors sprinted toward their stations, grabbing weapons and shifting mid-stride.

The machine had activated.

And still, Sofia stood frozen—watching her mother cradle the man who had made her laugh when grief tried to swallow her, who had stood beside her since she was young and newly forged, who had become part of her family in every way that mattered. Watching Pacer stare at the dirt like it had taken everything from him.

This was it.

Her home was no longer a sanctuary.

It was a fortress under siege.

And the war had finally arrived.