Exiled Wolf, Fated Luna

Chapter 25 – Bones and Breath

By the time training starts, the grass in the yard is already damp with the day’s first fog.

Tharos has the younger wolves in a rough circle on the packed‑dirt practice field: Orrik, Neri, Milo, a scattering of Hollowpeak teens and Grimvale pups who all look equally suspicious of the hour.

“Today,” he rumbles, “we learn how to fall.”

Groans rise like a choir.

“We already fell,” Orrik complains. “Ask my knee.”

“And you lived,” Tharos says. “Because you hit wrong and got lucky. Luck is not a plan.”

He spots me at the edge of the field and jerks his chin in a summons. “Good. Our very own expert in not letting things hit the bottom.”

I make a face but walk over. “If this is a bridge joke, I’m leaving.”

“Bridge, ravine, same principle,” he says. “Bodies fall. We catch. Or we don’t. Better we practice the first part.”

He claps his hands once. “Pairs. One falls, one spots. Vexa, you’re with—” his gaze sweeps the circle “—Siala.”

The Hollowpeak girl from dinner stiffens, then squares her shoulders and steps toward me. Up close, she looks even younger—maybe fifteen. Eyes too old.

“Ever done trust falls?” Tharos asks.

She frowns. “Is that… a human thing?”

“Yes,” he says. “And they mostly do it badly. We’re going to do it better.”

He positions us: Siala standing straight, arms crossed over her chest, back to me. I stand a step behind, hands hover‑ready.

“On my count,” Tharos says, “Siala leans back. Vexa catches. No elbows, no theatrics. Just bones and breath.”

Siala glances over her shoulder. “What if she misses?”

“Then she learns faster,” he says. “And you land on a mat, not a ravine. Everyone wins.”

Comforting.

“Ready?” he asks.

No.

“Yes,” we both say.

“One. Two. Three.”

Siala goes stiff, then lets herself tip backward.

For a fraction of a second my body replays Milo’s weight dragging me toward emptiness. My stomach drops. My hands almost close too soon, anticipating instead of feeling.

Then she hits my arms—solid, heavier than she looks, but not enough to pull me off balance. I bend my knees, absorb the impact, steady us both.

She stares up at the sky, breath held. “You caught me,” she says, as if this is a surprise.

“That was the assignment,” I say. “Try again.”

We repeat it. Again. Again.

Each time, my heart jolts a little less. My body starts to learn the math of it: angle, weight, timing. The bond buzzes faintly in the background—Darian somewhere at the edge of the field, watching, not interfering. His approval pulses warm every time I don’t flinch away.

Around us, kids fall and catch, fall and catch. Milo hesitates more than most; Neri talks straight through every rep, as if she can drown out the fear with words.

“Switch,” Tharos calls. “Spotters fall, fallers spot.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

He folds his arms. “You thought you were only doing half the lesson?”

Siala steps behind me, eyes wide. “I don’t—”

Tharos’ voice softens a notch. “If you want someone to trust you to fall, you show them you’ll do it too. That’s pack.”

I swallow. My body does not like the idea of leaning into someone else’s arms, not after years of being told no one would ever be there.

Bridges. Cages. Empty doorways.

“Vexa?” Siala’s voice is small. “I—I’ll try. If you do.”

I breathe in. Out.

“Okay,” I say. “Count us.”

She stammers, then manages, “One. Two. Three.”

I force every muscle in my back to unlock and let myself tip.

The sky rolls. For one terrible half‑second my nervous system screams that there’s nothing there.

Then hands catch my shoulders.

Not as solid as Darian’s, not as sure as Tharos’s, but there.

I suck in a shaky breath. “Okay,” I say. “Okay.”

Behind us, someone whoops. Neri, probably.

“Again,” Siala says, a little stronger.

We do it until my body believes her more than my fear.

When Tharos finally calls a break, my arms ache and my head buzzes. Kids scatter to water jugs and the shade; Vael materializes at the edge of the field with a towel around her neck, eyeing the organized chaos.

“You survived,” she says to me. “Twice.”

“Bridges and trust falls,” I say. “Apparently my brand now.”

Darian joins us, lines of tension eased in his face. Sweat darkens his collar, but his shoulder is holding. The bond hums with satisfaction.

“You did good,” he says.

“So did they,” I nod toward the field. Milo is letting Orrik catch him now, a tiny miracle in itself. The boy who muttered “defective” last night is spotting a smaller kid with careful, serious hands.

“What does it feel like?” Darian asks, watching them. “Letting go when you know you can’t catch yourself.”

Terrifying. Wrong. Necessary.

“Like falling off a cliff,” I say. “And finding out halfway down someone built a ledge.”

His eyes meet mine. “Stick around,” he says quietly. “We’re still building.”

Before I can answer, Jarek jogs up, phone in hand, expression tight.

“Alpha,” he says, handing it over. “You’re going to want to take this.”

Darian glances at the screen, jaw tightening. “Who?”

“Human contact from Ravenford,” Jarek says. “Says he has news about Helix. And about their ‘missing wolf inventory.’”

The words sink into my gut like stones.

The world narrows again—not to a ravine this time, but to a network of cages and contracts I’ve only seen in nightmares and secondhand memories.

Darian’s gaze flicks to me, bond tightening.

“You’re not going alone,” I say, before he can open his mouth.

His mouth twists. “Didn’t plan to.”

He lifts the phone, thumb hovering over the accept button, eyes never leaving mine.

“You ready?” he asks.

No.

“Yes.

I glance back at the field—at kids learning to fall and catch, at Rhoen talking to a cluster of Hollowpeak teens, at Bran watching from the porch.

“At least,” I say, “we’re done practicing.”

Erynn’s voice floats from behind us. “Don’t say that out loud,” she mutters. “The universe is listening.”

Too late.

Darian answers the call.