The past did not arrive gently.
It came like a bruise tender when touched, painful when remembered.
Before the rogue camp burned.
Before blood stained the soil.
Before her name was whispered in fear and reverence.
There was a night when the world still felt whole.
The moon then had been full, hanging low over the forest of Virelune, silver light threading through the canopies like watchful eyes. The camp had been quieter than usual no alarms, no tension humming in the air. Just laughter. Soft. Careless.
She sat by the fire, knees drawn to her chest, listening.
Someone was telling a story an old Alpha tale, exaggerated and poorly told but no one interrupted. Not even him.
He stood a little apart from the flames, arms crossed, gaze fixed on her as though the rest of the world had blurred. In that moment, he was not a commander, not a weapon shaped by war. Just a man who still believed tomorrow was promised.
"You're staring again," she said without looking up.
A pause.
Then, "I'm memorizing."
She finally turned. "Memorizing what?"
"This," he replied simply. "You. The quiet. The way no one is trying to kill us."
She scoffed, but the sound was fond. "You're terrible at living in the present."
"And you're terrible at believing it lasts."
Their eyes met across the fire, sparks rising between them too many things unspoken, too many truths postponed.
If she had known…
If either of them had known
A horn sounded in the distance.
Not the sharp, panicked blast they would later recognize. No. This one was low. Wrong. Hesitant. Like someone who hadn't yet realized they were already too late.
He stiffened instantly. Warrior instinct snapping into place. "That's not ours."
The laughter died. The fire crackled louder, suddenly obscene in its normalcy.
From the tree line, shadows shifted.
And in that moment that precise moment the future split.
This was the last time she would see the camp intact.
The last time his eyes held certainty instead of regret.
The last time her name meant only her.
Because by dawn, the Alpha Council would be whispering.
By dawn, blood debts would be written.
By dawn, the girl by the fire would be gone.
And the world would begin sharpening itself around her.