Tormack hits the ground before Shineah can reach him. One moment he’s standing over the Queen’s body, swaying, sword slipping from his fingers — the next, his knees buckle, and he collapses beside her, the breath knocked out of him in a single, final exhale.

  “Tormack!” Shineah drops to her knees in the grass, sliding to his side. His skin is cold. His eyes half?open but unfocused. His breath, shallow and uneven.

  Behind her, the Direfang adults are still holding the children close — arms wrapped tight, hands covering eyes, bodies turned away from the Queen’s corpse. But the kids twist and peek anyway, wide?eyed and trembling, trying to understand the horror they just witnessed.

  A little boy whispers, “Why did he do that…?”

  Shineah’s throat tightens. She cups Tormack’s face with shaking hands. “Stay with me,” she breathes. “Please.”

  Her mother kneels opposite her, fingers pressing to Tormack’s throat. “His pulse is weak,” she whispers. “But he’s alive.”

  A child sobs. Another whimpers. The adults try to hush them, but their own voices shake.

  Garrun’s voice erupts through the clearing like a snapped bowstring.

  “What in the frozen heck was THAT?!”

  Shineah flinches but doesn’t look up from Tormack.

  Garrun storms forward, face red, eyes wild. “Shineah, he killed her! He killed the Queen right in front of the children! He dragged her out here like a madman and then—” He gestures at Tormack’s limp body. “Then he just collapses?”

  “You…” Shineah’s voice catches. “You didn’t see what happened inside!”

  “I saw enough!” Garrun snaps. “I saw him holding a blade to a Queen’s throat! I saw him shouting like he’d lost his mind! I saw him scare the children half to death!”

  A little girl peeks between her mother’s fingers, voice trembling. “Why did he do it…?”

  Shineah’s breath catches. “Because he—”

  She stops.

  She can’t explain the corruption. Not in a single sentence. Not to people who didn’t see it.

  Garrun steps closer with a sword in hand, his voice rising as he points it at Tormack. “You expect us to trust him after this? After what he just did? After what the children just saw?”

  “He saved us,” Shineah fires back.

  “Saved us?” Garrun barks a laugh. “From what? Because all I saw was him dragging a Queen into the forest and murdering her!”

  Shineah’s voice cracks. “You didn’t see the truth.”

  “Then tell us!” Garrun demands. “Tell us why he did it! Tell us why he—”

  “I DON’T KNOW!” Shineah’s voice breaks.

  Her hands tremble as she smooths Tormack’s hair back.

  “But I know he fought for us,” she whispers. “I know he fought for our wolves. I know he fought for me.”

  Her mother steps forward, voice steady and cold.

  “You did not see what we saw,” she says. “The Queen was corrupted. The Master’s shadow was in that castle. The King and Queen were behind everything — were the Masters.”

  The Direfangs murmur.

  Garrun shakes his head. “All I know is he killed a Queen in front of our children. And now he’s lying there like a broken weapon.”

  “He is wounded,” Shineah’s mother says. “And he is ours. He is one of us.”

  A heavy silence settles over the clearing.

  Varrik shifts his grip on the spear he managed to grab during their escape, the haft worn smooth from years of use. His other hand is full of hastily gathered supplies. He lets them drop to the ground with a dull thud before stepping forward, broad shoulders blocking part of the Queen’s body from view.

  “What about her?”

  The question hangs there like a blade.

  Talla moves next, her light brown braid pulled tight against her head, her long limbs drawn in close as if she’s trying to make herself smaller. She glances at Shineah before speaking, voice thin.

  “If we take her with us, Fendarrow will hunt us until they find her.”

  “They’ll hunt us anyway,” Garrun mutters. “We just killed their Queen.”

  “Leaving her here gives them a body to parade,” Varrik says. His tone is dry, weary. “Proof. A rallying cry.”

  Talla shakes her head. “Taking her gives them a direction. A trail. A reason to chase us now, not later.”

  One of the teenagers, Derrin, steps forward, voice tight. “If we leave her, they’ll say we murdered her in cold blood.”

  Garrun snorts. “He did.”

  Shineah stiffens. “He did what he had to.”

  “Maybe,” Garrun says. “But Fendarrow won’t care about ‘had to.’ They’ll care that their Queen is dead.”

  Shineah’s mother studies the body for a long moment, her expression unreadable. “We cannot carry her. Not with Tormack like this. Not with the children tired. Not with the bears already burdened.”

  Talla swallows hard, then steps closer to Shineah — close enough that her voice barely carries. Her eyes flick to Tormack’s still form, then back to Shineah’s face.

  “Shineah… I love you like a sister.”

  Her voice trembles. “But he’s reckless… he’s an—”

  Her gaze drifts over Tormack’s tusks, his ears, the bruises along his jaw. She bites her lip hard, as if the word itself might wound Shineah more than anything else happening in the clearing.

  Shineah stiffens, but Talla presses on, the words coming out in a whisper edged with fear.

  “We barely made it out of that city alive. If he hadn’t dragged the Queen out here like that — if he hadn’t lost control — maybe things wouldn’t have ended this way.” She shakes her head, her braid brushing her shoulder. “Maybe the children wouldn’t be shaking. Maybe we wouldn’t be standing over a dead Queen.”

  “I’m —” Talla’s breath shudders. Tears gather in her eyes, “I’m scared, Shineah,” she whispers. “For all of us. And if we leave him here… maybe Fendarrow won’t come after us.”

  Behind them, Varrik exhales through his crooked nose. “They’ll want answers,” he says with a gravely voice. “They’ll want someone to blame.”

  “They already have someone,” Garrun mutters, looking at Tormack.

  Shineah’s face tightens. “Then let them come for me instead.”

  Her mother places a hand on her shoulder. “No. You do not offer yourself to a kingdom that has already fallen to corruption… We will leave the Queen.”

  A ripple of discomfort moves through the tribe.

  Talla frowns. “Just… leave her?”

  “Yes,” Shineah’s mother says. “Her people will find her. They will mourn her, and they will decide what story to tell about her death.”

  “And what story will they tell about us?” Varrik asks.

  “That we fled,” the Shineah’s mother says. “That we vanished into the forest. That we did not desecrate her body or hide it.”

  Garrun crosses his arms. “They’ll still come.”

  “Yes, but not tonight.”

  Shineah looks down at Tormack, brushing a thumb across his cheek. “We don’t have the strength for a chase.”

  Her mother nods. “Then we give Fendarrow what they need to slow their fury.”

  Talla exhales. “A body to bury.”

  Varrik adds, “A Queen to mourn.”

  Garrun grumbles, but he doesn’t argue.

  As matriarch, Shineah’s mother turns to the tribe. “Gather your things. We move.”

  The Direfangs begin to shift, quiet and tense, but with purpose. No one touches the Queen. No one approaches her. They simply give her space — a strange, respectful distance — as if acknowledging that whatever she was, whatever she became, she was still a ruler of her people.

  Shineah leans over Tormack, her voice soft. “We’re taking you home.”

  Charlie and Grizz rumble low in their chests, ready to lift him.

  The forest waits.

  I wake sometime later, still weak, swaying gently with each step Charlie takes beneath me. The world is dim and shifting, the Whisperwood stretching out in long, shadowed corridors as we move through it. My head throbs. My body feels hollowed out. It takes me a moment to understand where I am and why.

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  Garrun notices me stirring. His expression tightens, and he doesn’t bother to hide the edge in his voice.

  “You’re lucky we didn’t leave you behind.”

  Shineah stiffens instantly. Her hand shoots up to grab mine, fingers lacing through my own as if to anchor me, or to warn him. The warmth of her touch steadies me, but it also makes the memories crash back all at once.

  The King. The Queen. The corruption. The collapse. My stomach twists.

  Then Shineah’s grip tightens. Her other hand comes up to my cheek, turning my face toward her. Her eyes search mine with a sharp, worried focus. She leans in close, studying my expression, then she shifts her gaze, placing her hand on my stomach as she listens to the way I’m breathing.

  “You scared me…” she whispers, then swallows. Her hand returns gently to my cheek, as if confirming I’m solid and real. “Your fire. It’s never hurt me before.”

  A cold weight drops into my stomach. “I hurt you?”

  “No,” she says quickly, shaking her head. “But it was hot. Hot enough that it could have…”

  Guilt hits me like a hammer. “I’m sorry… I was… not myself…”

  Her eyes soften, but the fear in them doesn’t vanish. “That’s what scared me.”

  No one else says anything. The silence around us is heavy, somber, as if the whole tribe is holding its breath.

  As night approaches, Shineah’s mother finally raises a hand. “Let’s make camp.”

  Her voice is calm, but the weight in it matches the weight in the air. The Direfangs begin to slow, their movements tired, wary, and quiet as they search for a place to settle.

  The group fans out through the trees and decides on a natural hollow beneath a canopy of tree branches with enough shrubbery around to hide us from wandering eyes. A few immediately begin digging, carving out a shallow fire pit with practiced motions. When they light it, the flames sit low in the earth, effective and discreet.

  Charlie rumbles, and some wolves answer with soft, breathy huffs. Grizz settles beside them, and the wolves lean into his massive flank without hesitation. The bears and wolves trade low sounds — huffs, chuffs, quiet throat?rumbles — and though none of us can decipher the meaning, it feels deliberate. Coordinated. Almost conversational.

  It is like they are speaking words to each other that we can’t hear.

  The whole camp seems to breathe easier with them here, a circle of warmth and loyalty in the middle of the Whisperwood.

  The Direfangs settle in a loose circle and begin unpacking a few loaves, some carrots and potatoes, and a few strips of smoked meat. It isn’t much, but it’s what they managed to grab on the fly, and it’s enough to keep the people steady for a night.

  The wolves drift closer as the food is divided. Hunger makes them restless. A few whine under their breath, pacing around the edge of the firelight. One nudges a child’s hand, nose lifting toward the smell of the meat. Another paws at the dirt, tail sweeping in hopeful arcs. Their ribs show through their fur.

  The children try to share. Small hands offer pieces of carrot or potato. One or two wolves accept the scraps, crunching them down even though it’s not what they need. Most sniff the offerings, lick the children’s palms, and turn their heads away and eye the meat.

  The pack leader watches all of this. He gives a low huff, a sound that carries more meaning than words. The wolves respond immediately. One by one, they slip into the trees, moving with the silent purpose of animals who know how to survive.

  With the wolves gone, the camp grows quieter. The Direfangs pull out their newly acquired bedrolls, spreading them across the ground. They’re simple, but far better than the two blankets everyone had to share before Fendarrow. Now everyone has something of their own to lie on. People settle in small clusters, each group forming its own pocket of warmth.

  The memory of Fendarrow’s soft beds and thick quilts lingers, but no one complains. The bedrolls are a blessing.

  Shineah moves through the circle, handing out the remaining rolls. Lastly, she reaches me with two in hand.

  She pauses a moment before extending one out to me.

  I think to myself as I slowly take it from her, my heart suddenly feeling heavier.

  I carry the bedroll a little away from the others, still not feeling very welcome, and lay it out on a patch of ground. Shineah watches me for a moment, then kneels and spreads her own bedroll next to mine. Close enough that our elbows might brush if either of us shifts in our sleep. I gaze at the division between them.

  The thoughts coil through me, heavy and unwelcome.

  We both settle in, and Shineah reaches her hand over to my chest, her presence a solid anchor in the moonlit night.

  Shineah’s lips hover over mine for a heartbeat, her breath warm against my skin. Then she closes the distance.

  My lips meet hers for a long moment, and an inner fire fills me with a warmth I have been starving for.

  The space between our bedrolls narrows as I take a slow breath and reach for her face again, wanting more of that closeness, more of her warmth, more of the quiet safety she gives me.

  I shift, sitting up slightly. She follows the movement with her eyes, her hand still resting lightly on me.

  I look around the camp and nod toward the woods, a silent question.

  But she shakes her head.

  I look at her with confusion. “Is it the woods?”

  She shakes her head.

  I wait for an answer.

  “I’m not ready yet… the Queen’s last words haven’t left me… Fendarrow will come for us… We still aren’t safe…”

  I throw my head back. “Will we ever be safe?”

  Shineah flinches at that, from the truth inside it. Her hand, still resting lightly on my chest, curls as if she’s trying to hold the question still before it can unravel either of us.

  She shifts closer, just a breath, her knee brushing the edge of my bedroll. Her forehead almost touches my shoulder, as though she wants to fold into me but can’t quite let herself.

  “Tormack…” she whispers, voice thin. “I want to feel safe. I do. I just… I can’t pretend we are… Can we just be close without going further?”

  The words settle between us.

  The thought sits heavy in my chest, refusing to move. I say nothing.

  I let out a long, defeated sigh and fall back into my bedroll. I lift her hand to my heart, hoping the contact will ease something inside me, but it doesn’t. The ache stays raw, bruised, and deep, as if I had just taken a heavy blow to the chest.

  For a few breaths, I lie there in the quiet while the hurt lingers, filling the space she won’t cross.

  When I can’t bear it anymore, I take a deep breath and rise to my feet. The movement is abrupt and deliberate. I look back at her only once — her eyes looking up, her hand half?lifted as if she wants to reach for me but doesn’t.

  “The Masters are dead,” I say, the words breaking out of me before I can stop them, “and they are still coming between us.”

  I push through the brush and allow the Whisperwood to swallow me as I walk away, my steps heavy, my breath tight. The ache in my chest won’t settle. It presses harder with every heartbeat, like something trying to claw its way out.

  My pace quickens.

  Branches crowd the path, clawing at my arms and shoulders. I raise my forearm to shield my face, pushing through the undergrowth. A low branch snaps across my cheek. Another catches my hair. I shove them aside, half?fighting the forest as I force my way forward.

  I don’t think about direction. I don’t think about anything.

  I just move.

  The walk becomes a hard stride.

  The stride becomes a run.

  I draw my sword, sweeping branches out of my way. It is as if the forest itself is fighting me as I barrel through with leaves continually whipping past my face. The forest becomes a blur of motion and shadow.

  I push harder into a clearing, then faster. As fast as my legs will carry me. As if speed alone could tear the pain out of me.

  My breath rips in and out, raw and uneven. The pressure in my chest builds until it feels like it might split me open.

  The trees thin and then vanish.

  I burst out of the treeline and skid to a halt at the edge of a cliff overlooking the vast moonlit forest below. My boots tear at the ground, momentum pitching me forward. One more step and I would’ve run straight into the open air.

  And a sound tears out of me, a loud, mournful roar, ripped from somewhere deep in my ribs, flung out over the drop and swallowed by the endless canopy far beneath me. It echoes through the Whisperwood like a wounded animal calling out to the night.

  My legs give out. I fall to my knees on the cold stone, hands just shy of the precipice. My breath comes in harsh, broken pulls. Sweat drips down my temples. My heart hammers like it’s trying to break free.

  For a long moment, I can’t move. I just kneel there in the moonlight, panting, the roar still vibrating in my bones. Then, from somewhere deep in the Whisperwood, far off, a sound carries through the trees, a pack of wolves answer with a long, rising howl. Their voices stretch across the night, distant but unmistakable, a call from hunters who recognize the pain in their packmate’s voice. Their howls fade into the forest.

  The sound rolls out over the valley.

  ******************************************

  Back at camp, Shineah stands rooted in place, staring into the darkness where Tormack disappeared. The fire crackles behind her, but she barely hears it. Her breath trembles. Her hands curl into fists. The ache in her chest feels sharp.

  Behind her, bedrolls rustle, and soon a presence slips an arm around Shineah’s side — her mother, offering the weight of someone who has lived long enough to recognize this kind of pain.

  Shineah stiffens.

  Her mother’s voice is low, barely above a whisper.

  “Daughter…”

  Shineah’s throat tightens. She doesn’t know how much her mother heard. She doesn’t want to know. The thought alone makes her stomach twist.

  “Don’t,” she mutters, shaking her head. “Please… I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Her mother doesn’t withdraw. She simply rests her arm there a moment longer, a quiet, wordless acknowledgment before letting it fall away.

  She steps back, giving Shineah space, letting her breathe. “He won’t go far.” She whispers.

  “You don’t know that. He doesn’t think about stuff when he is like this, he just goes.” Shineah stays there a long moment, staring into the dark, listening to the forest, listening for anything that might be him. "All the shrubs around here are going to make it hard for him to find us again... I don't want him getting lost..."

  The silence presses in. The weight of her mother’s presence behind her becomes too much — too knowing, too close, too unbearable. Shineah’s breath shudders. She turns sharply, snatching up her sword from beside the fire.

  “I’m going to go look for him.”

  “Shineah,” her mother warns, straightening. “Don’t you go off getting lost too!”

  Shineah swings the blade up to rest across her shoulder, her expression tightening with frustration and determination. “Come on. I’m a Direfang. You taught me better than that.”

  Her mother’s eyes narrow. “If you are going, then I’m going with you.”

  Shineah winces, but she doesn’t argue. She knows better.

  The forest closes in around them as they push through the brush.

  Distant howls rise somewhere in the Whisperwood, thin and long, answering something neither of them can see.

  Shineah and her mother follow the sound, moving deeper into the dark with only instinct to guide them.

  ******************************************

  The night stretches, marked only by the rustling of leaves and the steady pulse of crickets. The surge of raw emotion has spent itself, leaving me hollow and profoundly tired. It is darker now, clouds drifting across the sky and smothering what little moonlight remains. I step back into camp.

  The fire has burned low. Shapes lie bundled in bedrolls. The air feels still, as if the Whisperwood itself is holding its breath.

  I kneel beside Shineah’s bedroll, the weight of everything I’ve done pressing down on me. My voice comes out rough, scraped thin by exhaustion and shame.

  “Shineah…” I pause, searching for the right words, my breath catching on the effort.

  “I’m sorry…forgive me… You are right…” I swallow hard, the taste of the night still thick in my throat. “I’ll try… I’ll try to be patient. I promise.” The words barely make it past my lips.

  I lower myself into my bedroll, and the fight drains out of me all at once, leaving nothing but ache and bone?deep fatigue. My eyes close before I can think to keep them open.

  Sleep takes me — deep, heavy, and dreamless.

  ******************************************

  A little while later, the clouds have passed, and the moon is shining once again. Shineah and her mother return through the trees with the wolves padding silently at their sides. Their search had been long and persistent, each step heavier than the last, each empty patch of forest tightening the worry in Shineah’s chest. Now, as they step back into the clearing, the camp lies quiet once more.

  Her heart sinks, and then she sees him.

  Tormack’s familiar shape lies fast asleep beside her bedroll, his breathing deep and steady. The wolves slow, ears flicking toward him, their bodies easing as if they, too, recognize the shift in the air. Shineah’s mother stops beside her, exhaling a soft breath of relief.

  Shineah’s steps quicken, a surge of emotion breaking through her exhaustion. His hand rests almost tenderly on the edge of her blankets, as though he had reached for her before sleep finally claimed him.

  The sight of him, so vulnerable, so worn down, hits her with a fresh wave of feeling. She kneels beside him, her earlier frustration dissolving into something softer, deeper, painfully tender.

  He had come back. He was safe. For now, that was enough.

  Her mother lingers a moment longer, watching them both with a quiet, knowing ache before turning to settle back to bed. The wolves circle once and lie down close, their presence steady and protective.

  Shineah eases down beside her husband, curling gently into the space his body has left open for her. Seeing him close again, the steady rise and fall of his breath, settles the last of the fear in her chest as sleep finally claims her too.