Am I Still a Human?
1465 Words
The next days passed in uneasy quiet.
No attacks.
No border breaches.
But the air felt charged.
Elara tried to return to normal routines—walking the gardens, reading in the library, speaking cautiously with pack members.
But she noticed something strange.
Animals in the forest did not flee from her.
They watched.
Birds perched closer.
Wolves lingered.
Once, she reached out absentmindedly toward a passing wolf pup—and it pressed its head into her palm instinctively.
The elders saw.
They said nothing.
But they saw.
That evening, Rhydian found her sitting near the western cliffs.
“You’re thinking too loudly,” he said.
She smiled faintly. “Is that a wolf thing?”
“It’s a mate thing.”
She didn’t correct him.
Instead, she looked out over the forest.
“Do you ever wish you were not Alpha?” she asked suddenly.
He went still.
“No.”
“That was too fast.”
He exhaled. “I do not wish to abandon my responsibility.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Silence.
“Sometimes,” he admitted quietly, “I wonder who I would have been without it.”
She looked at him.
“Who would you have been?”
He met her gaze slowly.
“Less guarded.”
Her heart softened.
“You don’t have to be guarded with me.”
His eyes darkened.
“That is precisely the problem.”
Her breath caught.
He moved closer—not touching—but close enough that she felt his warmth.
“You make me want things I cannot afford,” he murmured.
“Like what?”
He searched her face.
“Peace.”
The word hit harder than passion ever could.
She reached for him first this time.
Her hands resting lightly against his chest.
“You saved me from the terrors on Christmas Eve, that is the best gift i have ever received for Christmas.”
His heartbeat thundered beneath her palms.
“But I don’t want to be your weakness,” she whispered.
“You are not.”
“Then what am I?”
His hand rose slowly, brushing along her jaw, down her neck.
“You are my anchor.”
The bond flared warm.
Not power.
Not transformation.
Just connection.
Deep and unshakable.
Far beyond the cliffs, unseen eyes watched the Blackcrest.
The Sovereign did not move yet.
He waited.
Because something was still forming.
And he wanted her to awaken on her own.
But for now—
She remained blissfully unaware.
And that made her far more dangerous than she realized.
The wind along the western cliffs carried the scent of pine and distant rain. Elara remained close to Rhydian, her hands still resting against his chest long after either of them should have stepped away. The moment had shifted into something quieter now—less fragile, more certain. His heartbeat beneath her palms had steadied, but it had not slowed.
“You’re thinking again,” she murmured softly.
His lips curved faintly. “You can tell?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
She hesitated, then admitted, “I don’t know. I just can.”
His gaze searched her face carefully, but there was no alarm in it. Only awareness.
“You’re learning me,” he said.
“Is that dangerous?”
“For me? Very.”
She smiled faintly at that, but something heavier lingered beneath the playfulness. The Blackcrest felt too still. Too watchful.
“Walk with me,” she said suddenly.
He didn’t question it.
They descended the stone path together, not touching now but close enough that the space between them felt intentional. The forest at the cliff’s base shimmered in dim twilight. Wolves patrolled the perimeter in controlled rotations, offering nods of respect as the Alpha passed. Some of their gazes lingered on Elara—curious, uncertain, assessing.
She felt it but refused to shrink.
“You’re not as invisible as you pretend to be,” Rhydian said quietly.
“I don’t want to be visible because of fear.”
“You aren’t.”
She stopped walking.
“Then what?”
“Because they don’t understand you.”
“That’s not better.”
“It is,” he said firmly. “Fear leads to hostility. Curiosity leads to loyalty.”
She studied him thoughtfully. “You believe that?”
“I believe in giving my pack time to adapt.”
“And if they don’t?”
His expression hardened just slightly. “Then they answer to me.”
They resumed walking, slower now.
The forest seemed almost peaceful, but Elara noticed something subtle—wolves were keeping slightly greater distance from her tonight. Not avoiding her. Just… observing.
She exhaled quietly. “They think I’m changing.”
Rhydian didn’t respond immediately.
She looked up at him. “You think so too.”
“I think,” he said carefully, “that you are adjusting.”
“To what?”
“To belonging.”
The word struck something deep.
Belonging.
She had spent most of her life feeling slightly misplaced. Too intense for some. Too independent for others. Too stubborn. Too emotional. Too much.
Here, she felt watched.
But not misplaced.
“That doesn’t mean I’m becoming something else,” she said quietly.
“No,” he agreed. “It doesn’t.”
But there was something in his tone—something protective.
They reached a clearing near a stream that reflected the dim moonlight like silver glass. Rhydian finally stepped closer again.
“Elara,” he said softly, “tell me something honestly.”
She raised an eyebrow. “That sounds dangerous.”
“It might be.”
She crossed her arms lightly. “Fine.”
“When you touched Kieran… when the poison vanished… what did it feel like?”
Her body stilled slightly at the memory.
“It felt,” she began slowly, searching for the right words, “like something in me didn’t like what it sensed.”
“That’s vague.”
“I know.” She sighed. “It wasn’t power. It wasn’t lightning or fire. It was more like… rejection.”
“Rejection?”
“Yes. Like my body refused to let that darkness stay.”
Rhydian absorbed that quietly.
“I didn’t summon anything,” she continued. “I didn’t command it. I just reacted.”
He nodded slowly.
“You don’t look relieved,” she noticed.
“I’m thinking.”
“That’s worse.”
He stepped closer, his hand brushing lightly against her elbow.
“You are still human,” he said firmly.
“Still?” she caught.
He held her gaze. “You are human.”
The correction was immediate. Intentional.
She studied him for a long moment, then stepped closer until her shoulder brushed his arm.
“You’re hiding something again,” she said softly.
His breath deepened slightly.
“I am protecting you from possibilities.”
“That’s not your choice.”
“It is when those possibilities could endanger you.”
Her frustration flared—but only briefly. Because she saw the fear beneath his restraint.
“You don’t trust me with the truth,” she said.
“I don’t trust the world with you,” he corrected.
Silence.
The stream moved gently beside them.
She softened.
“Rhydian… I don’t need to know everything. But I need you to let me stand beside you. Not behind you.”
His golden eyes shifted, something vulnerable flickering beneath them.
“You already stand beside me,” he said quietly.
“Then stop shielding me from shadows I can feel anyway.”
That struck him deeper than she intended.
He lifted his hand and cupped her jaw gently, his thumb brushing along her cheekbone.
“You are braver than I anticipated.”
“That sounds like an insult.”
“It isn’t.”
His gaze lowered briefly to her lips.
The air changed again.
She felt it instantly.
This time she didn’t hesitate.
She rose slightly on her toes.
He met her halfway.
The kiss wasn’t desperate.
It wasn’t consuming.
It was slow.
Measured.
Careful.
His hand slid from her jaw to her waist, steadying her, as if afraid she might vanish if he moved too quickly.
Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.
The bond pulsed—not violently, not overwhelmingly—but warmly. Deeply.
When they parted, their foreheads rested together.
“If this is what belonging feels like,” she whispered, “I don’t want to go back.”
His voice dropped lower. “There is no going back.”
Above them, unseen, Lyra stood on a ridge overlooking the clearing.
Her expression was unreadable—but her eyes were calculating.
The human’s influence was deepening.
Not through power.
Through emotional entanglement.
That was harder to sever.
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