Eleven: Lucian

The moon breaks over the ridge, bleaching the pines into pale toothpicks and turning the packed snow to mirror glass. I stand at the edge of the forest and fill my lungs with the cold—let it burn all the way down, freeze out what’s left of doubt or softness inside me. The patrol forms up behind, boots crunching in synchronized rhythm, a sound as crisp as bone underfoot.

We are six tonight, counting me. Four betas, muscle and hunger layered in quilted black and the kind of nervous energy that only comes when the moon is full and the law is at stake. Two scouts, lean and silent, both with scars that speak for them. I hand-picked every one for what happens next.

“Eyes up,” I say, not raising my voice. I don’t need to.

They snap to attention anyway, all but Erik—the youngest, barely into his twenties, wolf lineage stretched thin but compensated for with raw, dumb loyalty. He stares at the woods with a look I recognize from the first time I held a man’s throat in my hands: horror spiked with anticipation. He wants to be the one to finish it, to come back with a story for the others.

I ignore him for now, sweep the rest of the faces. Tessa, my left hand, stands with her arms crossed, jaw set. Her hair’s tied tight, eyes blacker than the tree line. She’s never questioned an order in her life, but I see the way her fingers flex, measuring the distance to the forest’s shadow. She wants it over, wants blood on the snow so she can relax. She’s reliable that way.

“Wren Cade,” I say. The name hangs in the air, fogs, then vanishes. “Turned last night. First transformation tonight.”

The group doesn’t flinch, but I feel the ripple. It’s not fear—they don’t get to have that—but something older, the atavistic tremor of knowing you’re about to cull your own kind. The scouts exchange a single look before dropping eyes to the ground.

“Her wounds should’ve killed her,” I continue. “They didn’t. She survived the bite.” I let the implication hang: None of us survived ours, not really, but we keep moving anyway.

I step forward and sweep the snow off the log at my feet, exposing a hidden cache: two bundles of restraints, a quiver of arrows, and the old box with the ceremonial blade. It’s silver, of course—bitter and bright, metal cold enough to make your gums ache if you lick it. The hilt’s wrapped in black leather, inlaid with the crescent mark of our pack, handed down from the original Alpha Vale. My father gave it to me the night I inherited the title, pressing it into my palm with a look that said more than any oath.

I tuck it into the sheath at my hip, let the weight remind me of what I am.

“Standard formation,” I say. “Tessa, you take the right. Luka left. Scouts in diamond. I’ll be at point. We move silent until we have visual, then you follow my lead.”

Tessa and Luka exchange a glance—less about trust, more about who gets first crack. The scouts, both named something with too many consonants, simply nod and slip into the snow like ghosts. They’ve done this before.

Erik, for all his bravado, shuffles closer and hitches the quiver over his shoulder with a jerk that nearly spills half the arrows. He sees me watching and looks away fast, cheeks lit up red even in the blue of moonlight.

“Questions?” I ask, knowing there aren’t any.

Erik clears his throat. “Are we…” His eyes flick to the box, then to my face. “Are we really supposed to… finish her? Even if she’s still—?”

Tessa snaps her head around, but I hold up a hand. “Pack law is absolute.” I meet Erik’s eyes, let the words do the work. “Turned wolves are unstable. They can’t be reasoned with.” I let the echo of my father’s voice come through, crisp and merciless. “The only cure is silver.”

Erik’s Adam’s apple bobs. He’s brave enough to nod, not brave enough to look me in the eye.

I sweep the patrol with one last glance, measuring them. They don’t need the pep talk, the brotherhood bullshit; what keeps them sharp is the clarity of knowing exactly where the line is. Cross it, and you’re done. Simple.

I roll my shoulders, let the shift happen just enough to catch the world brighter, the scents sharper. The woods reek of sap and old snow, but there’s a streak of something sour under it—fear, blood, animal panic. Human, but only just.

I give the signal: two fingers at my throat, then a flick toward the trees. The formation dissolves and re-forms, each one knowing their place, the choreography drilled in since they could walk. They vanish into the dark with a precision I’d be proud of if I wasn’t so cold inside.

I wait until the last footstep fades, then step into the woods.

The patrol moves like a single organism: pulse, nerve, intention. Even Erik, for all his bluster, falls into step. The cold doesn’t touch us, not really. If it did, we wouldn’t be here.

We are the law tonight, and law doesn’t hesitate.