Whisper to the Moon

Chapter Six: The Fire He Left Burning

The next morning, Logan knocked on the shed door.

"Alpha wants the training ground cleared by midday," he announced. "New weapons are coming from the south border. He said you'd help with the racks."

He said you'd help. Not he'd ask. Not he'd see if you were willing. He simply stated, you'd help.

I nodded. "I'll be there."

Logan turned to leave, then paused. He glanced back, his eyes scanning my face as if trying to decipher something written there.

"He called you by name," Logan said, his voice flat, devoid of inflection. "When he told me to find you. He said, 'tell Elin.'"

His eyes lingered a beat longer than necessary, a subtle deviation from his usual stoicism.

I kept my face impassive. "Thank you."

Logan walked away.

I stood in the doorway, the cold morning air biting at my cheeks. He said my name. Not "the human." Not "that one." Not "the girl in the shed."

He said Elin.

I worked through the morning, clearing the training ground, repairing the weathered wooden racks where the new weapons would soon be stored. Pack members came and went, their voices carrying across the clearing as they passed.

"Elin, the south corner needs more wood."

"Elin, you got any of that salve left? My hands are splitting."

"Elin, the fire pit needs re-stoning."

I answered them all, moving from task to task, my hands busy, my head bowed. But I couldn't stop replaying the sound of my name in my head. In his voice. Logan had delivered it flatly—but I imagined the way Kael might have said it. Kael's voice. Low. Rough. Unwilling. Elin.

I shook my head, driving the thought away.

By midday, the training ground was ready. The racks stood in neat, sturdy rows, freshly repaired. The fire pit was re-stoned and prepared for the evening's gathering.

I stepped back and surveyed my work. Just an ordinary morning's labor. But it was mine.

The new weapons arrived at dusk. I heard them from my shed—the heavy thud of footsteps, low, urgent voices, the metallic clang of metal. Then Kael's voice, short and clipped. Followed by Logan's: "They're pushing north. Three villages already."

Kael's voice, lower now. Hard as a blade. "They won't reach this one."

Later, the pack gathered around the fire. The laughter was thinner tonight, edged with a quiet tension. Hunters sharpened their knives with a grim purpose. I sat at the outermost edge, near the shadows, listening intently.

I watched Kael on his stone throne. Firelight flickered across his face, highlighting the hard line of his jaw. He wasn't laughing. He was thinking. Planning.

Every few seconds, his gaze swept the circle of faces. Once. Twice. Three times, his eyes passed over me.

They didn't stop. But I counted every time.

When the fire burned low and the pack began to drift away, I stayed behind. I poked at the dying embers with a stick, watching the orange glow pulse like a slow, steady heartbeat.

Footsteps behind me. Light. I thought Mick had come back. I didn't turn.

"Elin."

My breath hitched. I stopped breathing. I turned slowly. He was standing at the edge of the firelight, arms crossed, his face half-shadowed.

"You stayed," he said. Not a question, but an observation.

"Someone needs to put the fire out."

He didn't answer. He just looked at me—his eyes moving over my face, and for the first time, it wasn't a dismissive scan. It was a search.

"The racks are done," he said.

"Yes."

"The training ground is cleared."

"I did it this morning."

A pause stretched between us. He shifted his weight. Firelight caught the scars on his neck—silver lines etched in the dark.

"The herbs," he said, his voice softer. "People say they work."

I nodded. "They do."

He said nothing else. He stayed there, looking at me across the dying fire. The silence stretched—not comfortable, but not hostile either. A quiet understanding, perhaps.

Then he turned and walked back toward the stone house. He didn't say goodnight. He didn't say thank you.

When I looked down, I saw that he had left something on the log where he'd been standing. A single strip of dried meat, carefully wrapped in a clean leaf.

I picked it up. It was still warm.

That night, I lay in the straw and ate it in small, deliberate bites, savoring the taste of salt and smoke. I imagined the hands that had wrapped it.

He called me by name. He came to find me. He left me food.

Three things. Three small, impossible things.

I told myself not to believe any of them.

But the leaf stayed clutched in my hand until I fell asleep. I didn't let it go.