Whisper to the Moon

Chapter Three: The Stranger in the Firelight

Spring arrived slower than I expected.

The wild onions, planted two weeks prior, now stood half a finger tall—a small patch of vibrant green against the receding gray snow, like a carefully mended patch on old, worn cloth. Mick, true to form, came every day, crouching at the edge to gently touch their tips with his fingers before looking up at me with a wide grin. Coren's leg had healed sufficiently for the bandages to be removed; he walked with only a slight limp now, and Sera assured me he'd be completely fine in a few more days.

The entire pack had, in their own way, grown accustomed to my presence.

In the mornings, a voice would call out, "Elin, morning," as I made my way to fetch water. At midday, someone would crouch beside me, asking about the purpose of a particular herb. In the evenings, a passing hunter would drop off a fish or a piece of fresh meat, muttering, "Had extra," before quietly departing. The step outside my shed was never truly empty—there was always something waiting: a piece of cured hide, dry firewood, a small pouch of salt, a whetstone. Sometimes I didn't know who left them, but they were there. Every single day.

One afternoon, I was sharpening Thor's knife outside the shed. Rust scraped off against the stone, a brownish stream of water running down the groove. Sunlight glinted off the newly honed blade, making me squint.

Then I heard horses.

Wolves, by nature, didn't use horses; they relied on their own swift feet. The rhythmic thud of hooves on the frozen ground felt utterly out of place. I looked up from the whetstone and saw three figures at the northern entrance to the clearing.

Three wolves, but mounted. The one in the middle was a head taller than the other two, his frame broad as stone, covered in black fur. When he dismounted, his boots landed with a solid thud—like a tree putting down deep roots. His two men stood on either side, one holding the horses' reins, the other carrying a leather satchel.

The clearing fell silent. People set down their work, turning to stare. Thor walked over from the training ground, positioning himself in the middle of the clearing, facing the newcomers.

The black-furred wolf scanned the crowd, his gaze sweeping past me without a pause. He looked toward the stone house, then inclined his head slightly toward the man sitting on its steps.

"Kael," he said. Not "Alpha." It was spoken as an equal.

Kael emerged from the stone house, standing at the top of the steps, two levels higher than the black-furred wolf, bringing them to eye level.

"Daren," he replied, his voice flatter than usual, devoid of any excess.

The man called Daren offered a faint smile—just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, impossible to decipher. "I came to talk about the south," he said. "You got the message."

Kael neither nodded nor shook his head. He simply turned slightly toward the stone house and tipped his head. "Inside." He disappeared within.

Daren followed. His men were stopped by Logan at the edge of the clearing. Logan looked at both of them. "Wait out here," he instructed.

I crouched by the shed, my hands still resting on the knife. But my ears were keenly attuned. Hoofbeats. Voices. The distinct sound of a wooden door closing.

Coren ran over from somewhere and crouched beside me. "Who's that?" he whispered.

"I don't know."

"He's big," Coren observed.

I returned to sharpening. The blade scraped against the stone, and rust-colored water ran down the groove, soaking into the earth.

That night, the pack built a larger fire than usual. Two deer roasted on spits, their fat dripping into the hungry flames, sending up towering tongues of fire.

Daren and his men sat across the fire from Kael. The rest of the pack formed a wider circle around them. I sat at the outermost edge, Thor's newly sharpened knife resting on my knee.

Daren didn't speak much, but when he did, everyone listened intently. He spoke of the south—the same grim tales I'd heard before: three villages lost, no one certain of the aggressor, but the threat was steadily pushing north.

"Your territory," Daren said, his voice not loud, yet every word landed with the weight of bone. "And mine. There's nothing between us anymore."

Kael held a bowl, but didn't drink. "So you came to talk cooperation."

"I came to talk borders," Daren countered. "Your people hold the west. Mine hold the east. Who holds the middle?"

Kael was silent for a moment. "No one needs to hold the middle," he finally said. "They won't get that far."

"You're that sure?"

"They won't get that far." Kael repeated it, his voice lower now, heavier, like a nail being driven into solid wood.

Daren didn't argue. He raised his bowl and drank. His eyes swept across the faces gathered around the fire.

Then his eyes stopped.

On me.

I sat at the outermost edge, the knife on my knee. The firelight only reached half my face from across the clearing. But he looked at me. For two long seconds. Then he looked away.

I didn't move.

That night, I crouched in the straw and laid out the day's pieces: Daren. The south. Borders. The two seconds his eyes had stopped on me.

I didn't know what those two seconds meant. Perhaps he recognized I was human. Perhaps he was merely curious why a human was sitting at a wolf's fire. Perhaps it was nothing at all.

I placed it on the left shelf of my mind. Still full. The right shelf remained empty.

The sketch was pressed against my chest. I closed my eyes. Outside, voices still murmured. Firelight seeped through the gaps in the shed walls, flickering softly on the ground.

The wild onions were in the soil. Quietly green in the dark.