Chapter Six: The Weight of Absence

The first crack appeared during a council meeting.

Kael stood at the head of the long stone table, hands braced against its surface, listening as pack leaders argued over trade routes and border patrols. Their voices blurred into noise. He heard words but not the meaning. His attention drifted, pulled by a steady ache in his chest that refused to fade.

The bond was quiet.

That was the problem.

It no longer screamed or thrashed. It waited.

“Alpha?” one of the elders said carefully.

Kael looked up. Every face at the table stiffened. He realized then that he had been staring past them.

“Repeat it,” he said.

The elder cleared his throat. “The northern scouts report unrest near Frostveil territory.”

The name hit harder than expected.

Kael’s fingers tightened against the stone. “Unrest how?”

“Strange,” the elder said. “Wolves moving without pack banners. Borders shifting without challenge. Power settling where it shouldn’t.”

Lyra leaned forward beside him, her expression composed, her hand resting lightly on Kael’s arm. “Frostveil has always been isolated. We shouldn’t provoke them.”

Kael shrugged her off without looking.

“Isolation doesn’t create influence,” he said.

Lyra’s smile tightened. “Neither does paranoia.”

Several elders exchanged glances.

Kael straightened slowly. “Meeting adjourned.”

No one argued.

As the room emptied, Lyra rose with him, matching his stride. “You’ve been distracted,” she said softly. “The pack notices.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should,” she replied. “Perception matters.”

He stopped and finally looked at her. Really looked.

Lyra was beautiful. Graceful. Everything a Luna was meant to be on the surface. But standing beside her, Kael felt nothing. No pull. No quiet understanding. Just space.

“You wanted this role,” he said. “Then hold it.”

Her eyes flashed. “And you wanted power. I’m helping you keep it.”

He turned away.

That night, Kael dreamed of snow and silver light.

He stood at the edge of a forest that did not recognize him. The ground beneath his feet was solid, unyielding. Ahead, a woman walked away from him, her back straight, a child cradled against her shoulder.

“Elara,” he called.

She did not turn.

He woke with his heart pounding, sweat cold against his skin.

The bond pulsed once. Distant. Certain.

“She’s raising him,” he whispered.

Or her.

The thought tightened something deep in his chest.

In Frostveil, Elara woke before the light.

Mira slept peacefully, one small hand curled into Elara’s tunic. Her breathing was steady, soft. Elara watched her for a moment before gently easing herself free.

Outside, the air was sharp. Frost coated the ground in delicate patterns. Elara breathed it in and let the quiet settle her thoughts.

She trained harder now.

Not out of fear. Out of preparation.

Rowan joined her without announcement, moving into position across the clearing. “Again,” he said.

Elara nodded.

They circled, slow at first, then faster. Rowan attacked with precision, testing her reactions. Elara met him step for step, blocking, shifting, adapting. Power hummed beneath her skin, contained but present.

“Control,” Rowan reminded.

“I have it.”

“You’re close to forcing,” he said.

She exhaled and slowed, grounding herself. The land responded immediately, steadying her balance.

Rowan lowered his stance. “You’re changing.”

“So are you,” she replied lightly.

A corner of his mouth lifted. “I suppose Frostveil is.”

After training, Elara gathered herbs near the river, Mira playing nearby under watchful eyes. Wolves passed without question. Some nodded respectfully. Others kept their distance.

“She doesn’t claim leadership,” one murmured. “But she leads.”

Elara heard it. She did not respond.

Leadership was not something she reached for anymore. It was something she allowed.

Mira suddenly stood still, head tilted. “Mother.”

Elara looked up. “Yes?”

“He’s angry.”

Elara’s chest tightened. “Who?”

Mira frowned. “The loud one.”

Elara closed her eyes briefly.

Rowan approached, sensing the shift. “The bond?”

“Yes,” Elara said. “But it’s not pulling. It’s… circling.”

Rowan considered that. “Predators circle before committing.”

Elara looked toward the mountains. “Then let him circle.”

Back in Silver Fang territory, things unraveled quietly.

Borders went unanswered. Patrols returned unsettled. Allies delayed responses. The pack felt it, the way animals always did when leadership wavered.

Lyra tried to fill the space.

She held gatherings. Issued commands. Corrected warriors publicly. Each attempt tightened resistance rather than easing it.

“She doesn’t listen,” a guard muttered after being dismissed.

“She performs,” another replied. “That’s different.”

Kael heard everything.

He said nothing.

Instead, he spent more time alone. Walking borders. Standing beneath the moon. Listening to a bond that refused to die.

He crossed into neutral land one night, stopping just short of Frostveil’s outer markers. The runes along the stone hummed faintly, old and aware.

“She crossed alone,” he said quietly. “And survived.”

The realization no longer surprised him.

It humbled him.

Elara felt him that same night.

Not close. But closer.

She stood at the edge of Frostveil, Mira asleep against her back, watching the moon climb.

“He’s learning,” she murmured.

Rowan, standing nearby, raised a brow. “That doesn’t always mean safety.”

“No,” Elara agreed. “But it changes intent.”

Mira stirred. “Mother?”

“Yes?”

“Will he hurt us?”

Elara turned, meeting her daughter’s eyes. “No.”

Mira studied her, then nodded, satisfied.

Elara looked back toward the mountains, heart steady.

Kael had chosen power once.

She had chosen survival.

Now, both choices were colliding.

And the land was watching.