Chapter 77: The Wound

The wolves at the edge of the forest vanished as quickly as they'd come, melting into the shadows like mist at dawn. But their words lingered in the cold air, settling into my chest like something that would never leave.

*The half-blood has won the peace. Now let's see if she can keep it.*

I stood at the edge of the camp, Stellan's hand in mine, and felt the weight of those words press down on me. The packs were healing. The wolves were learning to trust. But something was still coming. Something that had been waiting for this moment since before I was born.

"What did they mean?" I asked. "About keeping the peace?"

Stellan was quiet for a moment. Then: "They mean that peace is not a thing you achieve once. It's a thing you build every day. With every choice you make. With every wolf you forgive. With every fear you let go."

I looked at the forest, at the darkness beyond. "I don't know if I can."

He pulled me close, his arms wrapping around me. "Then let me help you. Let me teach you. Let me love you until you can."

---

The morning came too fast.

I woke to the sound of voices outside the tent—low, urgent, familiar. Stellan was already awake, his body tense, his eyes fixed on the entrance. "There's been an attack. Wolves from the south. They're coming for the Red River pack."

I sat up, the furs falling away, the cold air rushing in. "Ronan is dead. His wolves surrendered. Who would—"

"Someone who wants revenge. Someone who wants to tear apart everything we've built." He was already pulling on his furs, his claws extending, his teeth baring. "Someone who wants to prove that a half-blood can't lead."

I rose, my wolf rising with me. "Then let's show them they're wrong."

---

The attack came at dawn.

Wolves poured from the forest, their fur dark, their eyes bright, their bodies tense. They were not Ronan's wolves—they were something else. Something older. Something that had been waiting for this moment since before I was born.

Stellan met them head-on, his white fur bright against the darkness, his blue eyes blazing. The North Star wolves fought beside him, their voices raised, their claws finding throats. The Bozkurt wolves flanked them, their movements fluid, their attacks precise.

And I fought with them, my body moving through the chaos, my claws finding flesh, my teeth finding throats. I was not afraid. I was not running. I was fighting for everything I had built.

But there were too many. Always too many.

---

I saw the arrow too late.

It flew from the shadows, dark and fast, aimed at my heart. Stellan saw it too, but he was fighting, his claws locked with the leader of the attackers, his teeth bared, his body straining.

He couldn't reach me. No one could.

I closed my eyes, waiting for the impact.

It never came.

The sound was sharp, wet, terrible. I opened my eyes, and Bjorn was there. His body was between me and the arrow, his chest pierced, his blood staining the snow.

"Bjorn!" I caught him as he fell, my hands pressing against his wound, my voice rising. "No. No, no, no."

He looked up at me, his eyes pale, his face peaceful. "I told you," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "I told you I'd protect you."

"You can't die. You can't—" I was crying, the tears hot against my cold skin. "You can't leave me. You can't—"

He smiled—the first real smile I'd seen from him. "I'm not leaving. I'm just going home."

His eyes closed. His body went still.

I screamed.

---

The battle ended as the sun set.

The attackers fled, their leader dead, their purpose gone. The pack gathered at the edge of the field, their faces pale, their bodies trembling. They had won, but the victory felt hollow.

Bjorn's body lay in the snow, his face peaceful, his hands folded across his chest. The wolves who had known him stood around him, their heads bowed, their voices silent.

Stellan knelt beside me, his hand on my shoulder. "He saved you. He gave his life for you."

I looked at him—at his blue eyes, his pale face, his steady love. "He shouldn't have. He shouldn't—"

"He chose to." Stellan's voice was soft. "He chose to protect you. He chose to love you. He chose to be brave."

I felt the tears come again, hot against my cold skin. "I didn't deserve it."

Stellan pulled me close, his arms wrapping around me. "You did. You always did."

---

The funeral was held at dawn.

The pack gathered at the edge of the lake, their faces pale, their voices low. Bjorn's body lay on a pyre of wood and furs, his face peaceful, his hands folded across his chest.

The Elder stepped forward, her silver hair bright, her voice rising in the old song. The song that had been sung since before the wolves came to these lands. The song that sent warriors home.

I stood at the front, Stellan's hand in mine, the bond pulsing between us. I had not cried since the battle. I would not cry now. Bjorn had given his life for me. I would honor his sacrifice.

The flames rose, swallowing his body, sending his spirit to the sky. The wolves howled, their voices rising, their grief echoing off the mountains.

And I stood in the center of it all, watching the smoke rise, watching the light fade, watching the wolf who had protected me disappear into the darkness.

---

The pack dispersed as the sun rose, their grief heavy, their hearts full. But I stayed at the edge of the lake, watching the embers fade, watching the smoke rise.

Stellan found me there, his face pale, his eyes bright. "He would have wanted you to live. To love. To be happy."

I looked at him. "I don't know how."

He pulled me close, his arms wrapping around me. "Then let me teach you. Let me show you. Let me love you until you remember."

I leaned into him, feeling the warmth of his skin, the pulse of the bond. "I loved him. He was like a father to me."

Stellan kissed my forehead. "He knew. He always knew."

---

The Elder came to me that night.

She stood at the entrance of our tent, her silver hair bright, her eyes sharp. "Bjorn wanted you to have this."

She held out a pendant—old, worn, carved with symbols I recognized from the Watcher's temple, from the blade she had given me, from the visions that had been chasing me since before I was born.

"He wore it every day," she said. "Since his mate died. Since the war that took her. He said it reminded him of what he was fighting for."

I took the pendant, feeling its weight in my hand. "What was he fighting for?"

She smiled—a sad, tired smile. "He was fighting for a world where wolves didn't have to choose between love and duty. Where a half-blood could lead. Where the old ways could change." She touched my face, her fingers warm against my skin. "He was fighting for you."

---

I wore the pendant from that day forward.

It hung against my chest, warm against my skin, a reminder of the wolf who had given his life for me. A reminder of what I was fighting for. A reminder of the world I was building.

Stellan saw it, the first time we lay together after the funeral. "It suits you," he said, his voice soft. "The pendant. It suits you."

I touched it, feeling its weight. "He would have wanted me to have it. To remember."

He pulled me close, his arms wrapping around me. "Then remember. Remember him. Remember what he gave you. Remember what you're fighting for."

I leaned into him, feeling the warmth of his skin, the pulse of the bond. "I will. I always will."