Zale
The memorial bell rang for the third time the next morning. People who were grieving moved like pale boats on a rough sea, and the tomb at Eastern Creek was a slab of stones and remembered warmth. I had seen them sing for her, and the white shroud fell away like a promise. I had said things to the ground that were both prayers and threats. The pack had helped me get through it; their sadness made me feel strong. But sadness doesn't plan a campaign. Grief does not put arrows together. Grief is the coal that you use to make weapons.
I called Huxley after the memorial.
Huxley came to me not as a war captain but as a man who smelt like incense and old pages, with a faint scent of ash and old herbs on his tunic. He was a wizard who was our elder advisor on lore and binding craft. When he walked into the hall, it got very quiet. Huxley gave advice that could change the course of a battle by bending hidden rules to his advantage. Others gave him muscle and march.
He stood exactly where I had always felt Emily's ghosts were in my office. The chair at the head of the table was still warm from where I had sat and promised, and Huxley took his place across from me with the calm of someone who had seen the same moon wax and wane for longer than most men could remember.
"You can't sit still," he said without any introduction, like old bones and old magic tell you the weather.
"I am thinking about war," I said. The words were true but not very interesting. He didn't blink.
Huxley said, "Then you better be ready to gut the ledger," but his fingers were drumming a slow, thoughtful pattern on the parchment in front of him. He pushed a small stack of patrol logs, reports, and names forward. The edges were smudged with ink from being rushed, and there was an embroidered cloth with sigils that shone faintly in the torchlight. "Taros doesn't do anything for free." But swords aren't always what war is about. "Sometimes it's a knowing, a break in the weave."
"I know," I said. "Raft admitted that he led them. Kellen and Nerine had a hand. Taros is the hand.
Huxley tapped the paper with a finger. "Taros is a risk-taker. Since the last drought, he's been there. He made himself by making trade routes and getting married. But to put a cross on our door? That is a risk. Either he's too ambitious to see clearly or he thinks there are more people with him than there are.
"How many?" "Yes?" I asked.
Huxley's eyes, which were the colour of stormy grey river stones, got smaller. "At least three packs are flirting with Taros. Two are still thinking about it, but they are leaning one way. They are afraid that if they go against him, they will be alone when the rogues attack them. But there is also blood. You won't get everyone to agree.
"So we start a war and get half the region's battle lines on our border, cutting off our supply lines and hurting our people." I swallowed. The costs were real and immediate: kids, fields, and the old healer who stitched bones together in the winter.
Huxley said, "War is a price." "But not all prices are the same." Some people say that if you don't do anything, Taros will keep going. "He's going to keep taking until you have nothing left to give." He leaned in. "If you make smart surgical strikes, get rid of Kellen, neutralise Nerine, and cut Taros off from his friends, you can stop this before it turns into a war that everyone in the valley will remember." And if you listen to me, you will tie up and untie what needs to be tied up. If you have the right counter-threads, you can break Nerine's chants. You can find Kellen by following the sigils he leaves behind. "Magic and a blade together are worse than either one alone."
"And what if they don't listen?" "I asked.
"Then you make them listen." Huxley's voice was both soft and harsh. "You can make border skirmishes expensive." You can make Taros do what you want. But I think you should do the opposite first: make your case and show the other Alphas proof that Taros broke a promise. A sword and spellwork that stops their witchcraft in its tracks back up diplomacy. "Show him before you set the pitch on fire."
I remembered Emily's face in the dark, with the moonlight shining on her hair. I thought about the midwives who had died, the little ones whose names I still couldn't say without my throat tightening. It seemed like waving a flag at a storm was what diplomacy was. But Huxley was right; a frontal war could bring ruin to those I had sworn to protect.
"We gather allies," I said, and I could feel the plan taking shape like iron that had been heated. "We show the proof. We get rid of Kellen and Nerine. We make Taros' support weaker. We make the pain of resisting impossible to ignore if they don't.
Huxley carefully folded the cloth with the sigils on it, and the threads hummed softly as he did so. "You talk like a leader and a man who has been hollowed out and filled with purpose." That emptiness can be a dangerous friend, Alpha. Don't let it tell you what to do without advice. Let me tie up the channels they use to talk in secret. Let me make their rituals leak like a bowl with a hole in it.
"I will not be my own counsel in my rage," I said. "I will give it to people I trust."
There was a pause that was so quiet you could hear wolves howling in the distance. It was broken by Huxley. "Then we leave tonight."
We planned the first strikes in the sickly light of the oil lamp. A small group led by Grate and Andros went to Redmarsh, while a secret group went to the willow grove in the fog to reveal Nerine with wards that Huxley would carry. Finally, we sent messengers to the undecided Alphas with Raft's testimony and any other evidence we could find. Huxley told us about the counter-rituals he would use: moon-chill pinpoints to stop Nerine's chant, sigils to show Kellen the way, and wards to hide our scouts' scent from witch-smoke. We sent scouts out to look for Taros' messengers on the roads and hid caches of food in case the supply lines froze. We chose names and faces for the squads: men and women I could trust with my life and the lives of the people I loved.
A thought as cold and clinical as a bone slid under my skin as we made plans: war would change things, no matter what we wanted. In the empty space, new leaders would emerge. Old ones would die, taking with them their customs. But I couldn't let the scales tip in Taros's favour.
"Keep an eye on Raft," Huxley told me at the end of that meeting. "A man who betrays once can betray again, especially if he is pushed." I will put a thread on him, a bond of truth that will hurt him when he lies.
"Watched," I said.
I stood under the moon that night and talked to her. It was a bad ritual, selfish and rough, but it helped me feel better. I whispered "Emily" to the empty space where her laughter used to be. "I won't let them forget you." I won't let your death be the sound that travels through the valley like smoke. I will make it a loud noise.
* * * * * * * * * *
Zale
The pack didn't sleep well. I got bits of news all night long, like a drip feed to the head. Scouts had seen a Taros runner east of the old bridge, Nerine's grove showed signs of recent burning, and Kellen's men were known to hunt the salt flats at dawn. We moved like the tide, which is always going to happen.
Raft led the scouts himself, a scared, sorry ghost taking them through places he used to think were safe. He jumped at every patrol marker, as if he thought the rope would break his neck. He showed us where Kellen had buried food and where he kept his sick horses. He took us down a path that few people use, through marsh reeds that would let us get close to Redmarsh without being seen.
The dawn we rode for Kellen was full of promise, and the sky was a bruise of purple and steel. We moved together, like one living thing, quietly and quickly. Grate rode with me, his face like stone. Andros on the side, with hawk-like eyes. Huxley's group didn't ride behind him with spears and food. Instead, he travelled light, with pouches at his belt that made a faint buzzing sound and a small iron staff across his back. He was calm, and he smelt like old books and winter leaves.
We snuck into Redmarsh like wolves that had been trained to wait. The salt flats sparkled like a field of white teeth. There were fewer than ten, maybe fifteen, of Kellen's men, and they were all ragged and thin, wearing a mix of stolen cloaks and armour. They were more hungry than they were angry.
The ambush went off without a hitch. There was no big fight. That hurt me more than the kill. This is how wars start now: quick beheadings and the taking of lieutenants before the drums of formality. Kellen went down with just a scream, and the roars of his men stopped as their will broke. The signal horn on Nerine didn't go off. Huxley had put a small ward at the mouth of the marsh. It made her call sound muffled and made the salt gulls sing wrong notes.
We pulled Kellen's head back to the pack like a dark, grim trophy. It hung in silence on the edge of our town, and when word got out, it was a blade across the valley. Taros' men were getting impatient. The alliances on the map changed. The undecided Alphas looked at the head and then at their own hearths.
Success tasted like coal. My wolf wanted more. My sadness wanted nothing less than for Taros to be completely destroyed. I kept my anger in check and followed Huxley's plan: expose, isolate, and then, if necessary, strike.
Next, we went after Nerine. Like Raft said, her grove was in the shade of the willows outside Taros' stronghold. She had either been careless or full of bravado. We found bits of ritual, bones, and the faint smell of moon-chant on the grass. Huxley knelt in the mud and drew sigils with a shaky finger that made the air hum. He chanted softly, and the sound made the hairs on my arms stand on end. A thin silver light came from his palm and wrapped around the trunks of the willows like ribbons.
When we hit them, the witches ran away, and their power broke like small reeds in the wind. There was chanting, flashes of light, and the sound of things falling apart when Nerine was caught, but Huxley's bindings held. She was tied up, and her eyes were wild and bright. She smiled at me like someone who was going to hell.
I told her, "You will tell me everything." She smiled more.
"You've already shown that you can't protect what you love," she said. "Taros chose to be cruel. I'm just a mirror.
I said, "You will be a mirror that shows every lie."
We sent messengers to the other Alphas with Raft's testimony, Kellen's head, and Nerine's confession, along with Huxley's sigils as proof charms that Nerine couldn't undo that showing the touch of Taros on her rites. Some people turned away. Some were unsure. One Alpha Lavren came right away to my side, and his eyes were full of sadness like mine. He swore his warriors to me and brought scouts with him who knew the hills like the back of their hands.
Taros answered with accusations and bravado. He made me look like a power-hungry Alpha who wanted to grow my territory. He said that the rogues were breaking the law on their own. Anyone who had seen him pull a knife in a crowded hall would have found the rhetoric thin and funny.
It was not diplomacy that stopped the violence, but it did change the story. The tide that had once tried to drown our pack now had to think about currents. Taros' friends shook with fear; their loyalty was not strong but weak. We had bought time, not peace, but time.
For people who have lost someone, time is a strange thing. It pulls and breaks. It lets plans get teeth. I used it to wrap each wound with care. We changed the watches, moved stockpiles to secret places, and taught new recruits how to stay alive. People who used to work in the fields learnt how to kill a man without making a sound. I told them not to hate blindly but to be smart and hit the enemy where they were weakest: their trust.
One week after Kellen fell, Huxley came to my chambers at dusk. He sat across from me without trying to hide it. He said, "You're close to Taros," not as a soldier but as someone who had read weather in stars and omens.
"I am closer than he thinks," I said. "But I don't want this to turn into a war that leaves nothing but ashes. The risk is too high.
Huxley put his hands together and looked at me like a man who had seen a storm and knew what the lightning looked like. "Take the fight to Taros if he won't listen to reason." But keep this in mind: one man's neck doesn't end a war. They stop when men stop listening to them. Get ready for the cost if you plan to hit his keep. And if you want to use magic, be ready for it to backfire. Spells cut both strings.
"I'll pay any price to get back at her," I said. The words came out of me like a verdict, clear and sure.
For a moment, Huxley's eyes softened. "Yes, avenge. But don't let your sadness turn into a chain that pulls the pack down into useless ruin. We have too many to lose. Use me where I'm strongest: to break the witchcraft they rely on, to make their signals false, and to make Taros' messengers sing lies so that his own men don't trust each other. "Let the rot show."
I said, "In the name of Emily," and the name burned like a brand. "I will be both the sword and the shield."
We made plans for what to do next in low voices and with maps that left marks on our fingers. Taros, who had lost important lieutenants and had his witch tied up, declared war on us and sent a group to attack our supply lines. We fought back by burning his bags and letting prisoners out of the cages he had them in. Every strike was sharp and precise, like a scalpel. Every time we won, more Alphas came to our side, and Taros' court got more paranoid.
But there were times, even with all the plotting and the raids, when an image broke my focus like a stone skidding across a lake: Emily in the willow, giving me a cookie with chocolate melted into her smile. That memory, as small as it was, was so brutal that it made me human enough to be dangerous.
One night, after a very violent fight near the eastern ridge where our new recruits had seen their first blood, I walked the queue by myself. The moon was thin and didn't care. The pack's breath around the fires sounded like waves crashing on a beach. I put my hand on the ground and listened to the slow beat of the world.
Huxley said quietly behind me, "You're thinking about making the raids bigger." He had a way of showing up without making a sound, leaving behind a faint smell of thyme and smoke.
I said, "Yes." "Taros needs to know how much his betrayal will cost him." I won't let him hold on to his dreams while our people heal.
Huxley thought about the sky. "Then pick your targets carefully. Do not take Taros' animals or burn down the homes of peasants to weaken him. Take his scouts, cut off his supplies, and make him watch his men die. Then, offer him a chance to talk. Use magic to mark his liars. Make his friends cough up their secrets when they see him.
A cruel smile crossed his face. "And what if he says no? "
I said, "Then we take his keep."
Huxley snorted in approval. "That's how it will be." But keep in mind that magic leaves signs. When you bind and unbind, give something of value back as an anchor. Don't let the valley think you can call storms without paying for them.
Up until that point, I had not let myself think about the attack on Taros' keep. The thought grew and filled my bones with a heat that I didn't want to feel or be afraid of. It would be a siege of weapons, magic, and will. It would make the valley pick a side. It would destroy the bridges I had once thought of fixing.
But death had given me a choice. The empty space where Emily had lived needed something more than quiet justice to make it right. What I said at her grave was not a promise to the ground; it was a demand from the living.
The next few weeks were full of small wars. We used supply waggons to free traders who had been as stubborn as León. We sent scouts out at night. We stopped Taros' messengers. We whispered in the halls of Alphas who hadn't made up their minds yet, and the horror of the truth of Taros' cruelty settled like frost. Some people offered their swords. Some people hid and watched.
When the raids were over, I would stand by the eastern creek and think about how her fingers felt in mine. Memory was a double-edged sword; when it was sharpened, it turned into determination. To put it bluntly, it would just tear. I kept it sharp.
When the calls for war finally came, voices from Alphas who had seen Taros' men fail, seen the witch bound, and heard the names on the lists made the valley shake like an animal that had just woken up. Taros's bravado turned into accusations and then threats. He sent a formal request: for the raids, he said, we should pay him penance. He said I was a warmonger in his letter.
"I'll answer him on the pitch," I said, and my voice didn't show how empty I felt inside. The pack looked at me like a choir; some cried, some clenched their fists, and others just breathed as if to make sure they were still themselves.
Huxley and I stood together at dawn when Taros' messengers came. They were men with faces like iron and no patience left. They had a letter with them. I read it in silence and folded it up as carefully as I would fold a knife.
Huxley told Taros, "The valley will not be a bed for the dead." If he wants the ground, he needs to take it fairly and face us openly. If he says no, tell him that this war won't be his alone. Tell him that the bones of the people he has betrayed will lead us to him. Tell him that people are watching him. I will put a sigil on his doors. "At night, he will hear whispers."
I sent him the message, and with it a line that he couldn't change: he had to respond within three days.
I walked the queue again at night and said Emily's name into the dark. The wind took it and brought it back to me broken and strong.
"I will be the storm you never saw coming," I said.
And something answered deep in the woods. Not in words, but in the sound of leaves rustling that sounded a lot like the start of a march.