The wind over the cliffs was colder than usual. It carried the scent of rain and iron — the kind of smell that lingered before a storm.
Kian stood at the edge, watching the valley below fade beneath low clouds. The packhouse roofs glimmered with dew, and faint trails of smoke rose from their chimneys. It should have been peaceful. It wasn't.
The world felt off somehow, like a melody missing one note.
He couldn't name the feeling, only that it left him restless.
Behind him, boots crunched on gravel. Aiden approached, the young beta carrying a thin folder of reports. "Alpha, the eastern border is secure. No sign of strays for weeks now."
Kian nodded absently. "Good."
Aiden hesitated. "You don't sound convinced."
He wasn't. The forest's silence unsettled him. Wolves were creatures of sound and rhythm — even quiet had a pulse. But lately, the air felt still, too still.
"I don't like it," Kian said finally. "It feels like the forest is holding its breath."
Aiden gave a small, uneasy laugh. "You've been saying that a lot lately."
Kian turned to look at him. "Because it's true."
The younger man's smile faltered under that steady gaze. "Right. Sorry, Alpha." He hesitated again before adding softly, "You've been… different. Since that night."
Kian's jaw tightened. That night. The words carried weight he couldn't explain. He remembered flashes — light, the roar of thunder, the sense of something breaking inside him.
But after that, nothing.
He had woken alone in the forest, a strange mark burning on his wrist and a name on his tongue that faded before he could speak it.
He'd told himself it didn't matter. That it was just a dream. But dreams didn't leave scars that glowed beneath the skin.
Later that evening, Kian stood in his office, the moonlight spilling through the high windows. The mark on his wrist gleamed faintly — gold, but muted, as if the light came from somewhere far away.
He found himself tracing it absentmindedly, trying to recall what it meant. Each time he focused, a flash came — silver light, a hand reaching toward his, a whisper.
But when he tried to grasp it, the memory slipped away.
He clenched his fist in frustration.
A knock came at the door.
"Come in."
Mira stepped inside, holding a tray with tea. Her expression was cautious. "You haven't eaten."
"I'm not hungry."
"You haven't slept either."
He looked at her sharply, then softened. "You sound like my mother."
"I sound like your healer," she said, setting the tray down. "And your healer thinks you're carrying something your body doesn't understand."
He gave a faint smile. "You think I'm cursed?"
"I think you're haunted," she said simply.
The word lingered between them.
She gestured toward his wrist. "That mark—it's not fading."
Kian glanced down. The golden veins under his skin pulsed faintly, like a second heartbeat. "It's nothing."
Mira didn't believe him. "You don't really think that."
He said nothing.
Finally, she sighed. "There are things in this forest older than we are, Alpha. Sometimes they don't let go just because we forget."
He looked up sharply. "Forget?"
Her eyes held his. "What if you've already lost something you were never meant to?"
The question struck deep — too deep. For a moment, the room blurred, and a whisper stirred in his head.
A voice. A name he almost recognized.
Kian.
His pulse spiked.
He looked at Mira. "Did you hear that?"
"Hear what?"
"The voice—" He stopped, shaking his head. "Never mind."
She watched him carefully. "You need rest."
He turned away, staring at the moon through the window. "No. I need answers."
That night, sleep found him anyway.
And in that sleep, the forest came alive again — silver leaves trembling, a pale light breaking through the trees.
He walked through it barefoot, drawn toward the faint sound of water.
At the edge of a moonlit pool, he saw a reflection that wasn't his.
A woman's face. Silver eyes. Tears that glowed like light.
His chest tightened painfully. He reached out —
And woke with a start.
The moonlight poured across his bed, cold and sharp. The mark on his wrist was burning again, brighter than before.
He pressed a hand over it, his breath ragged. The ache wasn't just pain. It was longing — deep, wordless, and unbearable.
He didn't know who she was.
He didn't know what he had lost.
But somewhere in his bones, he knew one truth:
He was supposed to remember her.