PElara did not notice the exact moment Blackridge stopped feeling foreign.
There was no single breath where the mountains suddenly welcomed her, no clear dawn where she woke and thought this is home. Instead, it happened quietly, in pieces—stitched together by ordinary moments that accumulated until her heart no longer flinched when she walked the stone paths.
Her days began before sunrise.
She often woke to the hush that came just before the pack stirred, when the air was cool and the mountains still held the night close. From her window, she could see the faint outline of the peaks and the soft glow of torches burning low along the paths. For a moment, she would lie still, listening—to the rhythm of her own breathing, to Lyra's steady presence curled warmly inside her.
You're stronger now, her wolf murmured one morning, not with pride, but with certainty.
Elara didn't argue.
She dressed quietly, choosing simple clothes meant for work rather than status. The fabric was worn soft, practical, and unremarkable—and she liked it that way. Before leaving her room, she always paused, placing her palm briefly over her chest, grounding herself in the calm that now came so much more easily.
Outside, the pack was already waking.
The first training horn echoed through the mountains as she crossed the courtyard, the sound reverberating through stone and bone alike. Warriors gathered near the training grounds, their voices low but energized, weapons clinking softly. Omegas moved with purpose, carrying baskets, rolling carts, checking lists. The scent of baking bread drifted from the kitchens, warm and comforting.
No one stared at her anymore.
Some nodded in greeting. A few smiled. Others simply accepted her presence as part of the flow, as natural as the stone beneath their feet.
That acceptance still startled her sometimes.
Her mornings were spent with the omegas more often than not. She joined them in the storage halls, where sunlight filtered through high windows and dust motes floated lazily in the air. The work was steady—sorting dried meats, counting sacks of grain, checking seals on crates brought in from outlying trade routes.
"Elara," Brenna called one morning, her arms wrapped around a crate nearly as wide as she was. "Can you check if this is the barley shipment or the oats?"
Elara crouched beside the crate, brushing off chalk markings. "Barley," she said. "From the southern route. The seal's intact."
Brenna let out a relieved breath. "Good. Last time we mixed them up, the cooks nearly rioted."
Elara smiled, helping her lift the crate onto a cart.
She had learned quickly—not just the systems, but the people. Lio preferred lists written neatly and checked twice. Brenna worked fast but needed help pacing herself. Tamsin liked to hum while working, soft and off-key, but always in a good mood.
They teased her gently now, no longer stiff or awkward around her.
"You're going to put us all out of work," Tamsin joked one afternoon as Elara efficiently reorganized a cluttered shelf. "Next thing we know, you'll be running this place."
Elara laughed, startled by the sound of it. "I don't think Kael would like that."
At the mention of the Alpha, the omegas exchanged glances—curious, cautious, respectful.
"He doesn't mind," Lio said carefully. "As long as things get done."
Elara didn't comment, but she noticed the way Kael's name no longer carried fear here—only weight.
By midday, her hands were usually dusted with flour or charcoal, her arms pleasantly sore. She ate with the omegas when she could, sitting on low stone steps or wooden benches near the kitchens. Meals were simple but hearty, shared easily, laughter passing as freely as food.
She listened more than she spoke.
They talked about small things—missing tools, upcoming festivals, who had slipped during training and earned bruises and jokes in equal measure. Sometimes they spoke of heavier matters too, but those conversations came slowly, carefully, built on trust rather than expectation.
Elara never pushed.
In the afternoons, she often found herself wandering.
Blackridge was vast, carved into the mountains rather than built atop them. There were levels and terraces, narrow paths and wide courtyards, hidden alcoves where the wind sang softly through stone. Elara learned them all by heart, mapping the pack's territory not just with her feet, but with her senses.
She noticed how the scent of iron and sweat clung to the training grounds, how the healer's wing always smelled faintly of crushed herbs and clean water. She learned where the children played, where elders sat to watch the world go by, where sentries paused to warm their hands by fire before resuming their watch.
Sometimes she helped Mirael in the healer's wing, passing clean cloths or preparing poultices. The healer observed her with quiet intensity, occasionally asking questions—about what Elara noticed, how she felt, what instincts guided her hands.
"You don't hesitate," Mirael said once, watching Elara calm a frightened child with a scraped knee. "Fear doesn't paralyze you."
Elara wiped her hands clean. "I know what it's like to be afraid and alone."
Mirael nodded slowly. "Then you know why presence matters."
Those words stayed with her.
Evenings brought a slower pace. Fires were lit along the paths, casting warm light across stone walls. The pack gathered in clusters—some near the kitchens, others by the training grounds, a few in quieter corners where conversations were softer.
Elara often found herself near the central courtyard at dusk, watching as the sky shifted through shades of amber and violet. That was when she felt Kael most often—not always visible, but unmistakable.
He never hovered.
Sometimes he was speaking with warriors, his posture relaxed but attentive. Other times he stood near the higher terraces, gaze sweeping over the pack like a silent promise of protection. On rare evenings, their paths crossed close enough for words.
"You worked long today," he said once, not accusing, just observant.
Elara shrugged. "It didn't feel long."
He studied her carefully, as if weighing something unseen. "Rest when you need to."
"I will," she promised—and for the first time in her life, it was a promise she trusted herself to keep.
Lyra stirred warmly at those moments, curious but calm.
He guards without chains, her wolf murmured.
That is rare.
Elara didn't know what it meant yet—but she felt it.
As weeks passed, her presence became routine. She joined the omegas every day now, moving with ease among them. They relied on her without demanding, accepted her help without resentment. She learned their rhythms and they learned hers.
She was no longer "the wounded wolf from Silvercrest."
She was Elara.
Some nights, exhaustion claimed her quickly. She would return to her room with aching muscles and a quiet sense of accomplishment, falling asleep almost before her head hit the pillow. Other nights, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, marveling at the absence of dread.
No footsteps approached her door uninvited.
No whispers followed her through the halls.
No expectation hovered over her like a blade.
Instead, there was only the steady pulse of life around her.
One evening, as she helped carry supplies back to storage, Brenna glanced at her sideways. "You know," she said hesitantly, "you don't have to keep doing this every day. You've done more than enough."
Elara paused, adjusting the crate in her arms. "I want to."
Brenna searched her face, then smiled—soft, understanding. "Then we're glad you're here."
Those words settled deep.
Later that night, as Elara returned to her room, she paused in the corridor, listening to the distant sounds of the pack settling in. She pressed her palm to the stone wall, feeling its cool solidity beneath her fingers.
For so long, survival had been her only goal.
Now, she was living.
Not in grand gestures or dramatic declarations—but in shared meals, steady work, gentle friendships, and the quiet knowledge that she belonged somewhere without being claimed or diminished.
Lyra stretched contentedly within her.
This place sees you, her wolf said softly.
And it does not demand you bleed for it.
Elara closed her eyes, breathing deeply.
Tomorrow would come with its own tasks, its own challenges. The world beyond Blackridge was still uncertain, still dangerous. Politics stirred. Alphas schemed. Councils watched.
But for now—for this precious stretch of time—Elara allowed herself to rest in the shape of ordinary days.
And in doing so, she began to understand something profound:
Healing was not just the mending of wounds.
It was the slow, steady reclaiming of a life.