Thirteen: Lucian

The last half-mile is pure instinct—every footfall calculated, every breath measured. The team stops using words; we move on hand signals and the occasional rumble in the throat, a language older than speech. The scent grows stronger, rich with sweat and terror and the sharp note of fresh blood. She’s close. I can feel it, a tension in the air that sets my molars on edge.

We fan out, everyone taking their prescribed position. Tessa to my right, Luka to my left, the scouts already vanishing up the low ridge that fences the gully. Erik, to his credit, manages not to trip. I give a silent count—three, two, one—and they begin to close the circle.

The forest is blue with moonlight, everything else drowned in shadow. I catch a glimpse of movement up ahead: a flick of gray against the dark, a vibration in the snow as something heavy skids, then rights itself. She’s lost control, no rhythm to her movement, just raw need to run or hide or kill. I raise a fist—universal sign for freeze—and the patrol stops as one.

I move forward, not fast. I want her to know I’m coming.

A tangle of downed birch marks the edge of a shallow depression, and there, wedged beneath a fallen trunk, is the wolf. She’s half-curled, back legs tucked under, forelegs braced against the icy dirt. Her fur is matted and streaked dark with blood, ribs flaring with every panicked breath. The eyes—still rimmed with too much white, still too human—fix on me with a wild, desperate clarity.

I crouch. My own breath fogs out, slow and deliberate, a sign of peace in the language of predators.

She bares her teeth. A low, rattling growl leaks out. But she doesn’t lunge. Not yet.

“Wren,” I say, softly. It’s stupid; she doesn’t know her own name right now. But it feels like the right thing to do, or maybe the only thing.

The others keep their distance. Tessa’s eyes are locked on me, waiting for the sign. Luka hovers at the edge of the tree line, one hand resting on the silver-tipped baton at his hip. The scouts above hold their arrows nocked but not drawn, the tips gleaming even in the dim.

I step closer, slow, keeping my movements small. The wolf’s hackles lift, tail lashing side to side. I can hear the click of her jaw as she works the air, tasting the scent I throw off—dominance, challenge, maybe something else.

The fated bond is supposed to be rare. A myth, my father called it, useful only for keeping pups in line. But as I draw nearer, the air between us thickens, electric. My pulse kicks up, heart hammering so hard I think she can hear it. There’s a tug at my core, an urge to reach out, not to kill but to… something. The word doesn’t come.

She barks, a sudden, sharp yelp, then scrambles backward, twisting in the mud and snow. The movement rips the wound in her flank wider—blood wells out, hot and steaming. She tries to rise but the back leg drags uselessly. The pain should slow her. It doesn’t.

She lunges, teeth aimed at my throat, and I react without thinking—pivot, grab, twist. The impact jars my arm but I hold on, bracing her neck just behind the skull, the way you do with wild things that can’t be reasoned with. She thrashes, claws raking my forearm, tearing through the coat to leave hot, stinging lines. The smell of blood is overwhelming.

Tessa is there in an instant, grabbing the hind legs, pinning her to the ground. Luka circles in, flanking. The scouts above drop from the ridge, bounding through the snow, and we have her surrounded.

She snaps and snarls, snapping at anyone who gets close. The power in her jaws is obscene, but she can’t get the leverage. Erik hesitates at the edge of the circle, unsure whether to help or stand back. I don’t blame him. It’s not every night you get to see a legend made real.

“Restraints,” I bark, and Tessa is on it, pulling the reinforced cuffs from her belt. It takes all three of us to get them on—the wolf twists and bucks, froth spraying from her mouth, but finally the click of the locking mechanism snaps through the air, final and satisfying.

The wolf sags, spent. Her sides heave, and the eyes, wild a moment ago, now look dull, almost pleading. Something in me knots at the sight.

I let go, stand, and wipe the blood from my palm onto the inside of my jacket. The wound stings, but I’ve had worse.

“Shift her,” I order, voice low. “Now.”

Tessa nods. She kneels, grips the wolf by the muzzle, and whispers the old words, the incantation that forces the transformation back. The words are nonsense, really—just a script passed down through the generations—but the voice, the intent, is what matters. The wolf stiffens, whimpers, then begins to convulse, body shuddering in ways no human body should.

Bones crack. Limbs shorten. The fur thins and falls away in clumps, drifting on the wind like ash. The scream that rises up is neither human nor animal, but it’s agony either way.

And then, just like that, she’s there—Wren Cade, naked and shivering in the snow, hands curled into claws, face streaked with blood and snot and tears. The cuffs bite into her wrists, pinning her arms behind her back.

She looks up at me, and for a second, she knows who I am.

I draw the silver dagger from my belt, let the moon catch on its blade. The air grows still. The others watch, breathless, waiting for the law to be fulfilled.

I walk over, kneel in the snow, and place the tip against her chest, just above the heart. She doesn’t flinch. She just stares, eyes wide and wet and impossibly alive.

My hand shakes. It shouldn’t, but it does.

“Do it,” Tessa whispers, voice urgent.

But I don’t.

Instead, I look at Wren, really look, and see not the beast, but the woman inside—terrified, but unbroken.

For a moment, the moon vanishes behind a cloud, and the world goes dark.

I lower the dagger. My voice is a rasp. “No.”

The pack stands in shocked silence. The law is absolute, but for the first time, I question if it’s right.

Wren sags against the restraints, breathing ragged but still breathing.

I stand, dagger loose in my hand, and turn to the team.

“We take her back,” I say, voice steel. “Alive.”

Nobody argues. Not even the moon.