They didn't linger in the cave.
Renzo and Tonovan were lifted gently onto the last cart. Kaylah's magic had sealed their wounds, yet they remained pallid and fragile, breaths shallow but steady. Both were conscious enough to protest, but the carts moved regardless.
Renzo gave a weak chuckle. "The pups really took a liking to you, Ton. They're riding with us, along with that wolf that can't walk."
"You mean the big one glaring like I'm a side dish?" Tonovan rasped, half‑joking. "That's the one," Renzo laughed. Tonovan smiled, unbothered; he truly liked the wolves.
Once the glass‑back carcass was portioned and the final sections hoisted onto the carts, Barik gave the order to move. The gorge fell silent, wind slipping over stone as the hunters left the carnage behind.
The journey was unlike any other in Haven's history. Usually, a trip through the "Red Zones" was a frantic, breathless dash, a gamble where the price of a wrong step was death. But now, the hunters moved with a strange, guarded confidence.
They were under the strangest of escorts. Jag's pack, sated and disciplined, trotted ahead; a vanguard rather than a threat. In the final cart, Renzo and Tonovan lay pale but relieved, their weight added to the groaning axles.
With the wolves prowling ahead, the forest remained unnaturally silent. No shadows lurked, and no predators challenged them; there was only the steady crunch of leaves underfoot as they marched toward home.
Walking beside the creaking cart, Joeren's mind was still back in the dim cave, captivated by the memory of Kaylah's hands. He had watched her needle move with the same uncanny, mechanical precision he'd seen her use on rusted salvage, but this time, the "materials" were living flesh.
"I thought her hands were only meant for gears and wire," he murmured, shaking his head in slow disbelief. "I didn't know she could mend a man as easily as a machine, and just as fast."
He looked toward the front of the line, where the faint silver-green glow still seemed to cling to her silhouette.
"It's strange," he added softly. "Like watching the moon itself come down to mend the night."
Boris, still reeling from the day's events, stared at the faint glow beneath her skin. "It's silver with a touch of green," he whispered. "Look at her hand, Joer... it shines as the flesh seals."
The observation rippled through the hunters as Kaylah moved between wounded humans and battered wolves. The imagery finally took hold.
"Did you see that?" one whispered. "The wolves follow her like she's calling the tide. She's the wolf-healer. She's… Moonhand."
The return journey was slow, heavy with spoils, and the silent tension of their new reality. Kaylah worked tirelessly, mending torn flesh regardless of species. Each time she used her power, the faint silver-green light, the same ethereal glow found in the core of the lightning-scarred tree, flickered beneath her skin.
From the cart, Renzo watched a young wolf lope past, his eyes wide with disbelief.
"I never thought I'd see the day," Tonovan whispered, clutching the side of the wooden wagon. "We're being escorted by the very things that nearly took our heads."
Renzo nodded, his gaze shifting to the front of the line where the silhouettes of their leaders caught the fading light. "They both did it," he whispered. "Eris, the Wolf-talker, and Kaylah, the Moonhand."
***
Joeren walked with a steady, heavy pace beside the cart, his hand resting absently on the wooden frame where Renzo and Tonovan lay. The two wounded hunters were preoccupied, watching the wolf cubs tumble over each other in a play-fight; his gaze remained fixed on the front of the line where Eris was deep in conversation with Kaylah, their silhouettes framed by the golden afternoon light. Watching them, Joeren let out a long, heavy sigh. He'd been wrong about a lot of things.
Renzo shot his cousin a sideways look. The Joeren he knew was never this quiet. Usually, his shoulders were pulled back in a swagger, eyes darting around for a fight or someone to belittle. But this Joeren was relaxed, his focus purely on the path ahead.
"Joer," Renzo said softly, breaking the silence. "You've been awfully quiet since you came back. You watched Eris negotiate with those wolves like it was nothing... like it was normal."
Joeren didn't snap back. He didn't even stiffen. He only rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze distant. "Just… thinking."
Renzo blinked in mock shock. "Thinking? You?"
Renzo's eyes narrowed, not with suspicion, but with genuine curiosity. "Alright, out with it. That's twice now I've seen you look at Eris without wanting to wrap your hands around his throat. Should I be worried?"
Joeren snorted. "No."
"Then what's going on?"
Joeren didn't look up immediately. He kicked a loose stone off the trail, watching it skitter into the brush where a silver-furred wolf briefly appeared before vanishing again.
"Ren," Joeren finally said, his voice dropping to a low, honest rasp. "I watched a boy turn into a storm and a monster turn into an ally. A man feels… small after that."
"You don't sound angry about it," Renzo noted, his voice colored with genuine surprise. "I thought you'd be fuming that Eris is the hero of the hour."
Joeren finally looked at him. The envy that usually clouded his gaze was gone, replaced by a weary sort of clarity. "I was a fool," he admitted quietly. "I thought being a hunter meant being the loudest... the strongest... the one who took the most. And I saw Eris as a threat to my status."
He shook his head, looking out at the silver-furred sentinels moving through the trees.
"But in that cave, when the wolves didn't tear us apart... I realized that if Eris hadn't been who he is, I'd be rotting in the dark right now. Pride doesn't fill a belly, and it certainly doesn't stop a wolf's jaw."
Renzo studied his cousin, and a genuine warmth crept into his face. "I noticed you've changed your tune about Eris, too."
Joeren gave a single, decisive nod. "Yeah. I've been pushing hard in the wrong direction." He exhaled, a long breath that let go of stubborn pride, and his posture seemed to loosen. "Well… I'm learning."
"I see," Renzo said warmly. "I'm glad you do. Eris never held it against you, you know."
Joeren's brow furrowed, then softened into a pained expression.
"That's what makes it worse." "This mission," Joeren said finally, voice tight, "I almost lost you… and Ton." He gripped the cart's edge, knuckles white against the dark wood. "And I realized… being first doesn't mean being strong."
Renzo's eyes softened as he watched the arrogance melt into raw, quiet honesty. He shifted, wincing slightly, but managed a smile. "Grandpa would've liked hearing you say that."
Joeren's expression softened at the mention. "Yeah. Well… back in Haven, when we were healed enough to talk, he came to my cot. Asked me what really happened."
Renzo's eyebrows rose. "You told him?"
"Everything," Joeren said quietly. "The full, ugly story; he'd know anyway. About the glass‑back, when I urged you to rush in with me, and we got cornered instead. I thought killing it first would prove something. How you and Ton went down because we were spread too thin…"
Joeren's fingers clenched the waterskin until the leather creaked. "Worst of all, I tried to take the head of that dead glassback. Thought it'd make me…" He trailed off, the word legend sticking in his throat like ash.
Renzo gave a soft, wheezing chuckle. "A hero?" He leaned forward as far as his bandaged chest allowed. "Cuz, a beast's head doesn't feed a village. The team does." His voice dropped, stripped of its usual teasing edge. "Eris kept us safe. Kaylah healed you, me, Tonovan. I'd have tried to stop you from being a fool… if I hadn't been half‑dead at the time."
Joeren exhaled, realizing how wrong he'd been. And for the first time, he wasn't ashamed to admit it.
Renzo watched him, his expression softening. "That's a lot to carry, Joer. I didn't think you'd actually tell Grandpa Mishal the whole truth."
"He asked," Joeren said, voice tightening again. "And he's an old fox; he'd smell a lie anyway. So I didn't keep any secrets. I told him the full, ugly story. I… I thought he'd scold me. Or say I was too reckless to ever lead a hunt again."
"And?" Renzo asked, curious. "What did the old man say?"
Joeren stared ahead, eyes tracking Eris as the younger man walked beside the wolves, seemingly at peace with the world.
"He didn't yell," Joeren said quietly. "He just looked at my scars and said, 'You came back wounded… but you came back alive. And you came back changed. That's what matters.'"
Joeren fell silent, eyes tracing the silver‑green glow that flickered around Kaylah's hands as she checked a bandage. In that light, he saw it: Grandpa Mishal had been right. The boy who'd entered the gorge was dead, buried under his own pride. The man walking home now knew exactly where he stood.
Renzo blinked, the revelation settling. "And he said what?"
"He said he understood," Joeren continued, voice stripped of its usual edge. "Told me he used to be the same, back when he was still a hunter, before he became Elder. He said wanting to prove yourself isn't wrong, but thinking you have to stand alone to do it is."
Renzo slowed, absorbing the weight of that wisdom; a perspective they'd been too young, too arrogant to see until the world almost crushed them.
"Remember the chant he used to make us recite?" Joeren asked. "The one we used to mumble just to get him to stop talking so we could go play with our practice spears?"
Renzo smiled weakly, the memory surfacing through the fog of his pain. "By blood and silver, we stand as one! For Haven's light, the battle's won!"
"Yeah," Joeren murmured. "I used to think it was just a bunch of old-man talk. Something to make the Elders feel important. But fighting with the team when we were besieged, watching Barik stand with Eris, and seeing Kaylah heal anyone who needed it… I finally got it."
He gripped the side of the cart a little tighter. "It's about unity. It's about the fact that none of us are enough on our own. Bravery isn't about standing alone against the world; it's about having the courage to trust the man, or the wolf, beside you. Brotherhood. That's what keeps the gates of Haven closed against the dark."
Renzo reached out a trembling hand and placed it over Joeren's. For the first time in their lives, they weren't just cousins competing for glory; they were brothers of the same tribe, forged in the same fire.
"Eris saved us. Kaylah healed us. You…" Renzo clapped Joeren's shoulder, a firm, grounding gesture. "You returned and brought us back."
Joeren exhaled. The weight of the cave, the fight, and the near-loss finally settled into something manageable. "Yeah," he whispered. "I did."
"One breath," Renzo whispered. "One blood," Joeren replied. "One Haven," they said together.
For the first time, Joeren didn't feel the need to prove himself. He already had.
Up ahead, Barik looked back at the sound of their voices. He didn't say anything, but a small, knowing nod told them he had heard, and that he approved. The recovery team moved on, a single unit under the watchful eyes of the wild.
They picked up their pace, falling back in with the group just as Barik lifted a hand to halt them. Joeren took a final breath of the open air. He'd been wrong, and for the first time, he wasn't ashamed to admit it.
***
The lightning-struck tree stood at the center of the clearing like a jagged finger pointing at the sky. Its blackened trunk, split wide by the strike that had started this ordeal, still seemed to pulse with a faint, residual glow at its heart. To the hunters, it was a grim monument to their near-disaster; to the wolves, it was the site where their old world had ended and a new one had begun.
Barik raised a hand, halting the column. The cart creaked to a stop, and the wolves, sensing the shift in their leaders, paused without instruction, some sitting, others standing as silent sentinels against the horizon.
Below them, the terrain sloped toward the stagnant, rust-colored ponds. Several wolf carcasses from the previous night's battle floated in the largest pool, half-submerged in the cold, mountain water.
Barik surveyed the scene with the cold, calculated gaze of a leader burdened by a starving village. "The water's cold enough," he muttered, more to himself than the others. "The meat hasn't turned yet."
He turned to Eris, his voice dropping to a low, respectful rasp. "Eris, those carcasses—the hides are thick; we could armor half the guard with those plates. And the meat… we're running low, and winter doesn't care about pride. It's too much to leave to rot."
Barik nodded toward Jag, who perched on a nearby rock, her golden fur vivid against the charred ridge. "Talk to her. Ask if we can claim the pond-kills. We need to know if she considers them 'pack' or just meat now. Haven needs this, Eris."
Eris nodded, already feeling the cold, still air of the ridge pressing against his mind. He stepped toward the rock where the Alpha sat, the silver in his eyes beginning to hum.
Eris stepped toward the rock where the Alpha sat, the silver in his eyes beginning to hum as he leaned into the connection. He projected the image of the pond and the necessity of the harvest. He tried to convey the hunger in the village and the need for the thick, protective hides for the guards.
"Jag," Eris murmured, his voice barely a breath against the wind. "We need the fallen in the water—meat and hides."
Jag didn't turn at once. Her ears flicked back, and Eris sensed her mind brush his, not with approval but with a cold, jagged stillness.
A ripple surged through the pack behind her; tails that had been relaxed stiffened, low growls vibrating in the younger wolves' throats. To the humans, the carcasses were resources. To the wolves, they were kin who had bled beside them beneath the lightning‑split tree.
Jag finally turned her head. Her golden eyes weren't warm; they were flat and ancient.
The mental response didn't come in words. Instead, Eris was hit by a wave of raw, predatory grief and a flash of bared teeth. It was a warning; a reminder that while they were allies, they were not the same. The air between them went from cool to freezing in a heartbeat.
Eris recoiled slightly, his breath hitching. Behind him, he heard Barik's men drawing their knives, sensing the sudden shift in the wind.
The air tightened.
A low growl rolled from her chest, not loud, not explosive, but deep enough that the cubs froze where they played. Several wolves behind her bristled, hackles rising. One bared its teeth, just slightly.
Kaylah's breath caught. "Eris…"
Jag stepped closer.
Her eyes were no longer weary.
They were sharp.
Territorial.
The images that pressed back into Eris's mind were jagged and unresolved: blood on stone, bodies dragged away under moonlight, the confusion of broken packs forced together after slaughter. These wolves had not been hers by birth, but some had run beside her once. Some had died under the same Alpha who had killed her mate.
They were still wolves.
Still hers, now.
"Eris?" Barik's voice was low, his hand hovering over the hilt of his blade. "What is she saying?"
Eris didn't answer immediately. He was locked in a staring match with the Alpha, the silver light in his eyes flickering like a dying candle. The wolves were no longer sitting; they were rising, their hackles standing in a jagged line along the ridge.
The alliance, so carefully forged in the cave, suddenly felt as thin as a single strand of silk.
"I… I don't know," Eris whispered, his forehead beaded with sweat. "She's not answering. She's just… remembering."
Jag took a single, limping step toward him, her lips pulling back just enough to show the white of her fangs. The silence on the ridge was absolute, broken only by the distant, mocking caw of a scavenger bird circling the very meat they were fighting over.
The hunters stood frozen, knives out, hearts hammering against their ribs. One wrong move, one splash in that pond, and the "Red Zone" would live up to its name once again.
To be continued…