The weight of shadows

The map spread across Eastin’s desk was littered with new markers—red stones for rogue sightings, black for skirmishes, silver for the dead. There were too many stones now.

He pressed his palms into the table until the wood groaned. The pack house was quiet, long past midnight, but sleep had abandoned him weeks ago.

Something about these attacks didn’t fit. Rogues didn’t plan this well. They didn’t strike in calculated arcs around their territory. They didn’t disappear into the woods without leaving scent trails.

Unless they weren’t rogues at all.

Eastin’s jaw tightened.

The first time he’d allowed himself to think that—really think it—he’d wanted to tear the thought out of his skull. But now, he couldn’t ignore it. The pattern of movement. The precision. The growing boldness. Someone was orchestrating them. Someone who knew their land, their defenses, their weaknesses.

And every time, every damn time, Emry had been close to the line of fire.

He leaned back in his chair, dragging a hand through his hair. The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting the room in dim, amber light. Papers covered every surface—patrol reports, witness statements, the fragments of an investigation that led nowhere.

He reached for one, the old report written in his own handwriting from the night his parents vanished.

No scent trail. No bodies. Blood evidence minimal. Possible abduction.

He’d been seventeen then—barely a man, but old enough to step forward when the pack’s world fell apart. They had assumed the worst. They had buried stones in place of their parents’ bodies. But he had never believed they were gone.

He could still remember the way his mother’s energy felt when she was near—warm, pulsing with a strange hum that made the air itself seem alive. The old pack seer used to say Sera carried the Moon Goddess’s touch in her blood. That her line was chosen for more than leadership.

Eastin had laughed at the time. But now… now he wasn’t so sure.

He could still feel something faint when the moon was high. Like an echo at the edge of his awareness. It wasn’t gone, but it wasn’t reachable either.

“If you’re alive…” he murmured under his breath, staring at the map, “then why can’t I feel you?”

The door creaked. Braxton’s shadow fell across the floor.

“You’re still at it,” he said quietly. “You’ll burn yourself out.”

Eastin didn’t look up. “These attacks aren’t random.”

“I know.”

“I think they’re looking for something. Or someone.”

Braxton crossed the room, glancing at the scattered reports. “You think it’s Emry.”

Eastin’s silence was answer enough.

Braxton exhaled through his nose. “The rogues went for her first. Every time. You’re not wrong.”

“That’s not what worries me,” Eastin said, finally meeting his Beta’s gaze. “It’s why.”

He gestured to the map. “They could have gone for me. For you. For anyone in leadership. But they didn’t. They went for her. What if they know something we don’t?”

Braxton’s expression hardened. “Then we find out what it is before they do.”

Eastin nodded, but the unease didn’t leave him. “I’ve already doubled the night patrols. I want every perimeter checked before dawn. No one goes out alone. Especially not Emry.”

Braxton hesitated. “You know she won’t take kindly to that.”

Eastin gave a dry, humorless laugh. “When has she ever?”

The brief smile faded, and he leaned forward, his voice dropping. “If they have our parents, Brax… if they’re still alive somewhere…” He stopped, jaw tightening. “Why can’t I reach them? Every Alpha feels his bloodline. I should feel them.”

“Maybe something’s blocking it,” Braxton said quietly.

Eastin looked up sharply. “Like what?”

“The same thing that’s drawing them to Emry.”

Silence thickened between them, the weight of it pressing against the walls.

Finally, Eastin spoke. “If they want her because of what’s in her blood, then they’re going to find out what happens when they come for a member of my family.”

Braxton’s lips curved slightly, though his eyes stayed hard. “You sound like your father.”

Eastin glanced down at the old report one last time, his mother’s name smeared in faded ink. “Then let’s hope that means he’s still out there to hear it.”