Blackridge breathed beneath my feet.
I felt it every morning—the slow, unyielding pulse of stone and blood, of wolves who trusted me to stand between them and the world's teeth. From the upper terrace, I watched the pack wake as the sun crested the mountains, light spilling over the stone paths and into the courtyards below.
Routine. Order. Strength.
These were the things an Alpha cultivated.
Yet my gaze did not linger on the training grounds or the sentries changing shifts. It drifted, unbidden, toward the lower paths near the storage halls—toward a familiar figure moving among the omegas with easy purpose.
Elara.
She carried a crate with two younger omegas trailing behind her, laughing softly as she spoke. Not commanding. Not instructing. Just… present. The kind of presence that did not need a title to be felt.
Ryden followed my line of sight, because of course he did. "You're doing it again," he muttered.
"Doing what?" I asked, though I already knew.
"Watching like you're afraid she'll vanish if you blink."
I did not answer. I didn't need to. Ryden had known me long enough to recognize silence for what it was.
"She's healing," he added more carefully. "Not just her body."
"I know."
I knew because I could feel it.
The bond—dormant, restrained, but unmistakable—shifted differently now. Where once there had been pain and distance, there was steadiness. Warmth. A quiet sense of rightness that settled into my bones without demanding anything in return.
It terrified me.
I turned away from the terrace and headed inside, my cloak brushing against stone walls etched with the marks of past Alphas. Every step deeper into the pack house reminded me of what I carried—not just authority, but consequence.
The council chamber awaited.
Maps lay spread across the central table, weighted at the corners with carved stones. Routes marked in charcoal. Borders circled and redrawn. Reports stacked neatly, each one a potential spark.
Silvercrest had gone quiet.
Too quiet.
"They're watching," Garron, one of my commanders, said grimly. "No raids. No scouts crossing the borders. But movement within their territory has increased."
"Preparation without action," Ryden said. "Classic Roran."
I clenched my jaw.
Roran's ambition was no secret. Power-hungry men grew reckless when denied what they believed was theirs. And Elara—unmarked no longer in spirit, though still unclaimed by bond—was the kind of power men like him would destroy packs to possess.
"They won't move while the Higher Table is watching," I said. "Not openly."
"And when the attention fades?" Garron pressed.
"Then they'll try something subtler," I replied. "Or desperate."
The room fell silent.
I rested my hands on the table, forcing myself to focus. This was my duty. Strategy. Protection. Anticipation. Every decision I made rippled outward, affecting hundreds of lives.
And still—every instinct in me pulled back toward her.
Ryden waited until the others dispersed before speaking again. "You're balancing on a blade's edge, Kael."
"I know."
"You're holding back war for her."
"For my pack," I corrected automatically.
He arched a brow. "You'd have marched already if this were only about borders."
That much was true.
Elara had changed the equation. Not because she asked me to—she never did—but because her presence reminded me what power was meant to protect, not consume.
"I won't let Blackridge become what Silvercrest is becoming," I said quietly. "I won't let fear rot us from the inside."
Ryden studied me for a long moment. "And if the price of peace is your engagement?"
The word settled heavily between us.
Rumors had reached even the furthest sentry posts. Whispers of a missing Luna. Of an Alpha who remained unmated by choice, bound by a vow older than his title.
"I will not take a mate for appearances," I said flatly. "Nor will I force a bond to quiet my pack's doubts."
"And Elara?" Ryden asked carefully.
I exhaled slowly. "Elara is not a solution. She is not leverage. She is not—" I stopped myself, fists tightening. "She is under my protection. Nothing more will be decided while she heals."
Ryden nodded. "That answer will satisfy some."
"And anger others," I finished.
Such was leadership.
The meeting ended, but my restlessness did not. I left the chamber and moved through the pack house, steps carrying me without conscious thought. When I realized where I was headed, I did not turn back.
The storage hall was alive with quiet activity. Elara stood near the far wall, sleeves rolled up, listening intently as one omega explained a system for tracking winter supplies. She nodded, asked questions, adjusted a ledger with careful handwriting.
She looked… grounded.
Not fragile. Not broken.
Alive.
Something in my chest loosened, just slightly.
She noticed me then—not because I announced myself, but because she felt me. Her head lifted, eyes meeting mine across the room. There was no fear there. No flinch. Just recognition.
I did not approach. I did not interrupt.
An Alpha did not always need to be seen to lead.
Instead, I turned away, letting her have this space, this life she was building one ordinary day at a time. As I walked back toward my duties, the bond hummed softly—content, patient.
For the first time in years, I allowed myself to think the unthinkable:
That protecting her did not mean caging her.
That loving her—if that was what this was becoming—might mean standing beside her, not above.
The mountains loomed outside, ancient and unmovable.
And for once, I did not feel alone beneath their weight.