The glade was a circle of profound quiet, a place Ceridwen had chosen for its insulation from the world. Sunlight filtered through a high canopy of ancient oaks, dappling the mossy ground in shifting patterns of gold and green. The only sounds were the whisper of a breeze through the leaves and the distant, melodic call of a songbird. It was a place of peace, and it felt like a lie.
Connall stood with his arms crossed, his posture a hard line of resistance against the glade's tranquility. Althea sat on the grass, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, a portrait of coiled tension.
Ceridwen's voice was as soft as the moss under their feet, yet it carried an undeniable weight. "The power that binds you is a storm," the old wolf said, her eyes moving between them. "You have spent all your time fighting the winds, battling the waves. You exhaust yourselves, and the storm only grows stronger."
"We have enemies hunting us," Connall countered, his voice a low growl. "We don't have time for… this." He gestured impatiently at the serene clearing. Sitting still felt like painting a target on his back. His every instinct, honed by a decade of survival, screamed that stillness was death.
"And what is your solution, Prince of the Silvermoon?" Ceridwen asked, her gaze gentle but unyielding. "To continue as you are? To let the pain of your bond fester and burn until it consumes you both from within? That is not a strategy. It is a slow suicide."
Althea flinched at the word 'suicide'. The bond was a constant torment, a source of agony she was terrified to confront directly. The thought of willingly lowering her defenses, of opening her mind to the raw hatred Connall harbored for her, was sickening. What would he see in her? Worse, what new depths of his loathing would she be forced to feel?
"You cannot command the storm," Ceridwen continued, her gaze piercing. "But you can find its eye. There is a place of absolute stillness at its heart. It can only be reached through surrender. Together."
Her logic was infuriating and inescapable. Their current path was unsustainable. Desperation, a cold and familiar companion, gnawed at Connall's resolve. He gave a sharp, angry nod and dropped to the ground, facing Althea. He sat a few feet away, the space between them crackling with resentment and fear.
***
"Breathe," Ceridwen instructed from the edge of the glade. "Not as two wolves, but as one. Match your breath. Find a single rhythm. Then, clear your minds. Let the energy settle. Do not fight it."
They closed their eyes. The air grew thick. Connall focused on the sound of Althea's breathing, a soft inhale, a steady exhale. He matched it. Inhale. Exhale. For a single, fleeting moment, the searing ache that was the baseline of his existence lessened to a dull throb. Hope, faint and fragile, flickered within him.
Then his mind betrayed him. An image flared behind his eyes, unbidden and sharp: a Bloodfang banner, its crimson fabric snapping in a wind that smelled of smoke and burning pine. His mistrust, his hatred, surged like bile.
The bond reacted. A spike of white-hot agony lanced through them both. It was a clean, stabbing pain, as if an invisible knife had been plunged into their souls. Their eyes flew open, and they stared at each other, gasping.
"Again," Ceridwen's voice commanded, unmoved.
They tried again, their jaws tight with grim determination. They found the rhythm of their breathing faster this time, a desperate unity. The connection began to form, a low hum in the back of their minds. But as it deepened, it was Althea who faltered. A wave of memory washed over her—the accusing eyes of her packmates, the shame of being branded a traitor, the sting of exile. Her defenses spiked, a psychic wall of hurt and defiance slamming into place.
The backlash was violent. A nauseating wave of chaotic energy rolled through them, churning their insides. They flinched away from each other, a shared groan of misery escaping their lips.
With each new attempt, the failure grew more profound, the pain more acute. The peace of the glade had become a cruel mockery. Frustration curdled into anger. They exchanged furious glares across the small patch of grass, the silence thick with unspoken blame.
*She's not even trying,* Connall thought, his hands clenched into fists. *She's holding back.*
*He's poisoning it,* Althea's mind screamed back at the silent accusation in his eyes. *His hatred is the reason this is impossible.*
They were left panting, drained, and in more agony than when they had begun. The exercise was a failure. Connall's patience shattered. He pushed himself to his feet, ready to storm away, to declare this entire endeavor the fool's errand he had always believed it to be.
***
"You are failing because you are listening only to yourselves," Ceridwen's voice cut through the tense air, stopping Connall in his tracks. She stepped forward, her ancient gaze firm. "You focus on the surface ripples—the anger, the mistrust. You are trying to calm a storm by shouting at the wind."
She looked from Connall's furious face to Althea's despairing one. "Try one last time. But this time, do not try to clear your mind. Do not focus on your own pain. Ignore it. Instead, listen for the truth of the person opposite you. Feel the core of them, beneath the storm."
Exhausted, raw, and with nothing left to lose, they sank back down. What was one more failure? One more wave of pain? They closed their eyes, too tired to fight, too drained to even brace for the agony.
And for a single, breathtaking second, the walls crumbled.
The pain vanished.
Connall wasn't in the glade anymore. He was hit with a pure, undiluted flash of Althea's memory—not a vision, but a feeling. The sickening lurch of betrayal. The frantic, hammering pulse of a heart trapped in a cage of ribs. The absolute, dizzying terror of a world tilting on its axis, the ground ripped out from under her feet. He felt her innocence, not as a fact, but as a raw, overwhelming sensation.
At the exact same instant, Althea felt the vengeful Alpha Prince dissolve into nothing. She wasn't struck by his legendary hatred. She was engulfed by a deep, crushing wave of his grief. It was not a sharp pain, but a vast, hollow ache. The profound, echoing silence where a family used to be. The soul-deep cold of a young boy who had lost everyone he had ever loved in a single night of fire and slaughter.
The connection was too pure, too vulnerable. It shattered.
They were thrown back into their own minds as if from a physical blow, both gasping for air. The familiar, searing pain of the bond returned, a pale ghost compared to the cataclysmic truth they had just shared.
Connall stared at Althea. Althea stared back. Their anger was gone. Their frustration was forgotten. Across the sun-dappled grass, there was only the wide-eyed, silent shock of two enemies who had just been forced to feel the broken heart of the other.