Echoes In The Rain

The rain doesn't stop until sunset. By then, Blackthorn Pack has settled back into its usual rhythm smoke curling from stone chimneys, lanterns glowing behind cabin windows, the smell of roasted meat drifting through the village on a cool evening breeze.

For most people, that's comforting. For me, it's just another reminder that everyone else seems to belong somewhere.

I walk the muddy path between buildings with my hands shoved in my pockets. A few pack members nod as I pass. Some smile politely. Others suddenly find something very interesting to look at that isn't me. I'm never sure which bothers me more the pity or the discomfort. Neither feels great.

The village square sits at the heart of Blackthorn territory. Kids chase each other around a weathered stone fountain while the older wolves huddle under wooden awnings, waiting out the last of the drizzle. Laughter spills from the tavern. Someone's playing a fiddle badly and enthusiastically. It drifts through the evening air warm, alive, normal.

I slow near the fountain just in time to watch a little girl, maybe seven, go sprinting across the square and eat it spectacularly in the mud. She hits the ground with an undignified squeak. A few adults gasp. She's back on her feet half a second later, arms raised, declaring victory over the mud like she meant to do that.

Nobody knows how she won. She just did.

I smile despite myself. Kids have this ridiculous superpower, they just don't stay embarrassed. Somewhere along the way, the rest of us lose that.

"You're staring."

I turn. Lyra's perched on the fountain wall, balanced with the ease of someone who's spent half her life climbing things she wasn't supposed to. She tosses an apple at my head without warning.

I caught it. Barely.

"Thanks."

"You looked hungry."

"I always look hungry."

"That's fair."

She hops down beside me, and for a moment neither of us says anything. The village moves around us life going on the way it always does and that easy, comfortable silence settles in. It's one of the reasons I like being around her. She doesn't feel the need to fill every quiet second with noise.

Eventually she nods toward the big building overlooking the square. Alpha Hall. Its windows glow amber against the darkening sky.

"Your father called a council meeting."

I take a bite of the apple. "Sounds thrilling."

"It does, if you're eighty."

"Elder Mara's going to be devastated when she hears you said that."

"She'll live."

"Probably."

Lyra studies me for a second too long. "You should go."

I nearly choke on the apple. "Absolutely not."

"Why?"

"Because council meetings are where joy goes to die."

"You're exaggerating."

"I'm really not."

She laughs, and I feel that familiar little spark of victory. Making Lyra laugh has basically become a hobby of mine. I'm annoyingly good at it.

Unfortunately, she recovers fast.

"Your father specifically asked for you."

And there goes the victory.

"That's different."

"How?"

"It means I'm *definitely* not going."

"Kael."

"No."

"Kael."

"No."

She just looks at me, patient, unbothered, absolutely not going to drop it. I cave in about four seconds.

"Fine."

"I hate when you do that," she says.

"You hate losing arguments."

"Same thing."

We head toward Alpha Hall together. It sits on slightly elevated ground overlooking the rest of the village — not because Alphas need a good view, or so the official story goes. I've always suspected every Alpha secretly enjoys looking dramatic against a skyline.

The hall itself is ancient. Dark timber, reinforced stone, generations of Blackthorn leaders having lived, ruled, argued, celebrated, and according to Lyra occasionally thrown furniture within its walls. The heavy doors stand open, warm light spilling out across the rain-darkened ground.

As we get closer, something prickles at the back of my neck. Faint. Barely there. Like someone's watching me.

I glance over my shoulder. Nothing. Just the village, the rain, people going about their evening.

The feeling doesn't go away.

Lyra catches me looking around. "What?"

"Nothing."

She narrows her eyes the look that means she doesn't buy it for a second but she lets it go. For now.

Inside, a dozen people sit around the circular wooden table. The air feels heavier than usual. Quieter conversations. More serious faces. I recognize everyone in the room, which somehow makes it worse.

My father sits at the head of the table. Beside him, Beta Rowan — broad-shouldered, streaks of silver starting to show in his dark beard. Elder Mara's in her usual chair by the hearth. A handful of scouts and warriors fill the rest of the seats, and not one of them looks happy to be here.

I immediately regret coming.

My father glances up. Our eyes meet for half a second, and for that half second I actually let myself hope a nod, a word, anything.

He looks back at the table instead.

Something cold settles in my chest. I should be used to that by now. I'm not.

"You're late," Elder Mara says.

"Thank you for noticing."

She snorts. Lyra hides a smile. At least someone appreciates my suffering.

I take a seat near the back just as a scout finishes a sentence I've already missed the start of.

"found them near the northern boundary."

The room goes quiet. He sets a few objects on the table at a glance, ordinary animal bones. Then I notice the marks. Deep grooves carved into the surface, deliberate in a way claws or teeth never are.

The tension in the room ratchets up a notch.

"Could it have been rogues?" one of the warriors asks.

The scout shakes his head. "No."

"How can you be sure?"

His expression darkens. "Because rogues don't leave symbols."

A chill runs through the room, and I lean forward without meaning to. The grooves aren't random — they twist into a pattern, some kind of design I don't recognize.

Elder Mara's face has gone pale, and that alone is enough to unsettle me. This is a woman older than half the trees in the territory. Nothing rattles her.

She looks rattled.

Thunder rolls somewhere over the distant mountains, the sound rumbling through the hall. Nobody says anything for a long moment.

Finally my father breaks the silence. "Increased patrols, starting tonight."

A few uneasy glances pass around the table.

"Alpha," one of the scouts says carefully, "if these markings mean what Elder Mara thinks they mean"

He stops there.

My father's expression hardens. "Then we confirm it before we start spreading fear."

The scout drops his gaze. Nobody argues. Not out loud, anyway.

The meeting drags on more reports, more discussion, most of it going straight over my head. But my attention keeps drifting back to those carved symbols. Something about them bothers me. Not because they look familiar.

Because they feel familiar. Like I've seen them before somewhere. Or dreamed them.

Which is ridiculous.

The feeling doesn't leave anyway.

Hours later, the meeting finally breaks up. People filter out into the night, conversations low, concern still hanging in the air. I step outside.

The rain's stopped. Clouds drift slow across the sky, and the moon peeks through in pale, cold gaps. I breathe in, and for one strange second the air seems sharper than it should be wet earth, pine, smoke, animals, people, all of it distinct, all of it *vivid,* like someone turned the volume up on the whole world.

Then it fades, just as fast as it came.

Weird. Very weird.

Behind me, the hall doors open. My father's footsteps come up beside me, and for one stupid, hopeful second I think maybe he wants to talk. Maybe

"Kael."

He stops next to me, face unreadable, staring out at the dark treeline beyond the village.

"What?"

"The northern woods are off limits."

Not what I expected. "What?"

"You heard me."

"Why?"

Silence.

"I said why."

He finally looks at me. "There are things happening that you don't understand."

It lands harder than it should. Not because it's cruel — because it's familiar. People have been telling me some version of that my whole life. *You don't understand. You're not ready. Stay out of the way. Wait.*

Always wait.

I look away. "I'm not a child."

"No." His voice softens, just slightly. "That's what worries me."

Before I can say anything else, he turns and walks off, leaving me standing alone under the night sky confused, frustrated, and somehow feeling worse than before he showed up at all.

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Far beyond Blackthorn territory, deep in the northern forest, something moves between the trees.

Watching. Waiting.

And for the first time in centuries it has caught the scent of a name.

Blackthorn.

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