Tristan's Arrival

Tristan's POV

A jolt of pain cut through my chest as consciousness forced its way back. Antiseptic and soft hum of voices filled my nostrils. I struggled to keep my eyes open, the painful light causing me to flinch. A familiar face hovered above me—Reya.

"You're awake," she whispered, relief in her voice.

I attempted to speak, my throat parched. She brought water to my lips, and I drank greedily.

"Where am I?" I croaked.

"Riverdale's infirmary," she replied. "You were brought in unconscious at our gates, bleeding and almost dead."

Memories came crashing back—Dexter's betrayal, ambush, desperate escape. I had to warn them.

"Dexter. he's going to do something. A coordinated attack."

Reya's eyes narrowed. "We surmised as much. But your knowledge could be what we need to thwart him."

She paused, fingers wrapping around the edge of my blanket.

"They almost didn't admit you, you know," she spoke softly. "You've earned a lot of enemies, Tristan."

I sighed heavily. "I never expected forgiveness. Only a chance to repair what I helped destroy."

Even though I was at my lowest ebb, I insisted on seeing the council. With Reya beside me, I stood in front of the assembled leaders. Each eye in the war chamber blazed with distrust. Suspicion. Hostility.

"Riverdale is under threat of annihilation," I told them. "Dexter has mustered an army, and he's fighting our allied packs simultaneously."

Anxious whispers flowed through the room.

Elder Marcus came up on his elbows. "Why should we trust you, Tristan? Your past loyalties are questionable."

I nodded at him. "Because I was there. I saw the scheming. And because I owe it to Reya—to all of you—to make things right."

"Is this a redemption tour?" a councilman sneered. "Or a trap wrapped in sentiment?". 

Reya's voice cut through the tension. "He's telling the truth. I've seen the wounds. Heard his story. It's consonant with our scouts' reports."

Xander, who stood beside Reya, said nothing, arms crossed, face impassive.

"If we do nothing," I continued, "the next meeting we'll have will be over ash and blood."

Silence lengthened.

"Then we prepare," Marcus finally said.

The pack buzzed with urgency. Scouts were dispatched, defenses fortified, and alliances reaffirmed. I marched through the barracks, acknowledging warriors I once led—and betrayed.

Most avoided my eyes.

Reya caught up with me in the training yard.

"You're pushing yourself too hard," she told me. "You're not yet healed."

"And each moment I delay, Dexter gains an advantage," I replied.

She hesitated. "Do you trust him, Tristan? Dexter? You were friends, once."

I nodded brusquely. "Approximately because I know exactly how much he can do. He doesn't bluff. He tells you he's going to burn Riverdale, then he applies the match himself."

Ran with me across the war map.

"The south wall is still weak," she breathed.

Jesus bolster it with double the guard and illusion runes. Show it weak. Entice him in."

She gazed up at me. "You sound like your old self."

"The part that wasn't blind to monsters," I said. "Starting with the one I used to be."

That night, I did not sleep. I patrolled the halls of the castle, memories chewing at my mind like animals in an aviary.

In the practice grounds, I encountered Reya, practicing by herself.

"You ought to rest," I said.

She turned, eyes out of control, then settled. "Couldn't rest."

"Neither could I."

We stood silently.

"Do you ever regret that we met?" she asked abruptly.

The question struck me with force.

"No. Sorry for what I was, what I did—but never getting to meet you."

She turned away. "This war, it's already cost so much. If we lose."

"We won't," I said. "Not this time."

Sun had barely begun to lift the horizon when the first war horn sounded.

Rogues burst from the treeline in a tide of snarling meat and glinting metal.

I changed stride, fur bristling, claws out. I sliced through their front lines with familiar savagery, Xander at my side.

He gave one nod—no more—but that was enough.

Reya was everywhere at the same time—commanding troops, taking care of the wounded, manning the line.

We fought for hours.

Then, I spotted him.

Dexter stood on a hillside above the battlefield, shadow wolves at his sides.

Our eyes met.

He gave the raised-hand sneer-salute and vanished into the fog.

"He's questioning us," I growled. "The real strike has not even begun."

We captured one of the stray scouts after the battle. Bruised, snarling, defiant.

"Where is Dexter? What is his plan?" Reya asked.

The scout spat blood. "He's already inside."

Chills ran down my back.

"What am I to do with this?"

The rogue smiled. "You'll see."

An explosion rocked the eastern wall.

Smoke billowed; screams echoed.

Reya and I ran into chaos. On the wreckage, chiseled in stone, was a symbol. A mark too familiar to me.

Dexter's personal crest.

He wasn't standing in front of the gate.

He was standing behind it.

Already in Riverdale.

That night, as Riverdale whirled from the breach, Reya and I stood alone again.

She turned to me, eyes wide, shaking breath.

"Tristan. someone's watching us."

A shadow moved beyond the balcony.

And in the moonlight—two eyes.

Gold. Familiar.

Tristan's blood turned cold.

Because they weren't his.