The Calm Before

The sun has not yet risen for the day as it was still early in the morning when Kieran stood at the edge of the northern boundary with his eyes looking left and right to see if anyone was coming. He kept glancing over his shoulder, anxious yet composed. No sentries patrolled this stretch of the forest wall; he’d made sure of that by altering the patrol schedule earlier in the week. Everything was lining up perfectly.

A shadow emerged from the tree line—quick, quiet, lethal. The rogue. He was lean, sinewy, his coat dusted with ash to dim the silver of his fur. Kieran raised a clawed hand, and the rogue halted just beyond the clearing.

"You're late," Kieran said under his breath, glancing toward the towering den-lodge in the distance.

"You changed the meeting time twice," the rogue replied, voice cold and rasping. "I don't like games."

Kieran’s lips curved into a half-smile. "Neither does Ronan. So don’t screw this up."

He stepped aside, revealing a narrow breach in the stone barrier. The rogue slipped in like a whisper, his padded steps silent against the earth. Kieran closed the barrier, double-bolted it, and led him silently toward the old burrow tunnels that ran beneath the estate.

"You’ll stay here until moonrise," Kieran instructed as they entered a narrow, dim passage that reeked of damp soil and iron. "There’s a den at the end. No one goes in there. Provisions are already inside."

The rogue nodded once. He didn’t need comfort. Only blood.

Above ground, the den-lodge buzzed with its usual rhythm. Bones clinked in the kitchens, clawed paws echoed along polished stone, and firelight flickered through arched hollows. No one noticed the missing sentry at the northern path. No one questioned the shift change.

Kieran moved like a wraith through the halls, passing familiar packmates with a nod and a polite grunt. They saw a loyal steward, a calm presence. None saw the poison behind his eyes.

He slipped into his quarters and barred the door behind him, lighting a flame in the oil lamp that cast shadows in the gloom. A rough map of the territory was already spread across his stone table, along with several notes: Diva’s resting schedule, patrol rotations, and backup escape routes. Everything was set.

There was a knock.

He stiffened, but then relaxed. A coded knock—three short, one long.

He opened the door to find Lena, the head caretaker. Middle-aged, with a drooping tail and nervous ears. She stepped in quickly.

"I don’t like this," she whispered. "You said they wouldn’t come inside."

Kieran closed the door gently and turned to her. "Plans change. We need this done tonight. You know what she’s becoming."

Lena hesitated. "She’s still just a cub."

"No," Kieran said, eyes darkening. "She’s a storm in waiting. And storms don’t wait forever. You do your part, and when this is over, you’ll be rewarded. Just like Ronan promised."

Lena’s jaw tightened, but she gave a small nod. "What do you need?"

"At moonrise, distract the west den guards. Spill something, fall, scream—whatever it takes. Just give him time to reach her chamber."

She flinched at “him,” but didn’t argue.

"And if she fights back?"

Kieran’s smile was cruel. "Then she dies."

As the sun sank behind the hills, painting the sky in streaks of crimson and indigo, Diva stood at her hollowed window, watching the horizon in silence. Her combat drills had ended hours ago, and her limbs ached in that familiar, comforting way. Still cloaked in her hunting wrap and woven arm-guards, she sat down near her fire-pit and opened a small journal—rawhide-bound, worn from use.

She flipped through pages filled with charcoal markings, clawed sketches, and thoughts she didn’t dare voice aloud. A drawing of Lilian’s feathered mantle. A note about the burn mark Derek mentioned. A map of the eastern ridges, where the blood trail ended. Her claw hovered over a blank page.

Her thoughts drifted back to Derek’s warning. His eyes had held a fear she hadn’t seen before—not fear of an enemy, but fear of her.

The wind outside rustled the leaves gently. Everything was calm.

Too calm.

Below the lodge, the rogue crouched in silence. He’d spent the hours studying the map, sharpening his obsidian claws, and memorizing the paths. He wasn’t like the others Ronan sent on jobs like this. He was smarter. He knew patience.

At precisely the seventh hour, the small lantern Kieran left outside the tunnel flickered twice. The signal.

He moved like smoke, slipping through the narrow passageways with silent precision. Every step brought him closer to the heart of the den. To her.

In the west hall, Lena “accidentally” knocked over a cauldron of boiling marrow broth, sending steam and panic through the corridor. Two guards rushed in to help. She howled dramatically, clutching her arm and crying about scalds. By the time the third guard arrived, the rogue was already slipping through the adjoining burrow.

Kieran stood at the top of the servants’ stairwell, giving a curt nod as the rogue passed him.

"You have ten minutes. No more."

Diva turned a page, writing slowly. Her brow furrowed.

Something’s wrong.

A creak behind her.

She was on her feet in seconds, clawed blade drawn from the hollow beneath her bedding furs. Her heart pounded, steady and fierce.

The rogue emerged from the shadows, cloaked in black, knives gleaming.

And then—

He stepped fully into the chamber, closing the wooden slab softly behind him.

Diva faced him, jaw set, grip tightening around her weapon.

The air in the room turned cold.

The silence before the storm.