The hollow was quieter that night, but not with peace. Survivors huddled in small knots near the fires, their faces half-lit by flames, half-lost in shadow. Some rocked back and forth in silence. Others whispered names like prayers. Children clung to parents with fingers that wouldn't let go. And in between, the air hummed with a single question, unspoken but loud enough to choke: Why them, and not me?
Elara sat with her knees drawn tight to her chest, staring into the orange flicker. She could still see the ruins of Ravenholt when she closed her eyes—bodies twisted half into beasts, the look on Marla's face when she'd recognised her sister Tessa in the chapel pew, the boy calling for his mother to bones. Survival should have felt like relief. Instead, it pressed on her chest like a stone.
Around her, the wolves—Garrett, Amber, Luke—moved with quiet certainty, fetching water, distributing strips of bread, laying out furs for those too broken to find rest. They did not speak much, and their silence unnerved the humans. These strangers had walked through fire and ruin without flinching, yet refused to say who they really were. The unease grew with every glance cast their way.
A man with soot still streaking his face muttered loud enough for others to hear, "Why are they unscathed? What makes them different?" His words carried sharpness, fuelled by grief. A few nodded. Others stared at the ground.
Caleb bristled, his hand tightening around the knife at his belt. "They got us out alive. You'd be ash without them."
The man looked up, eyes bloodshot, mouth twisted. "Maybe. Or maybe they knew this was coming."
Elara opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. She could feel it—the silver shimmer creeping into her vision, showing her auras she hadn't asked to see. The man accusing the wolves glowed faint, weak green. Fae. He didn't even know it. Neither did anyone else.
Not yet, she told herself. She couldn't be the one to rip that truth open. Not tonight.
---
Corin stirred nearby, pale and trembling beneath her bandages. The bite wound on her shoulder had closed, scabbed black, but she hadn't turned. Whispers circled around her like vultures. She's hiding it. She'll change in the night. She's cursed. Only the wolves looked calm. Garrett had told Amber to watch over her, and Amber's golden eyes had made anyone thinking of challenging it look away.
Torvee sat cross-legged with the rescued child pressed against her side. The boy—Jonah, his name was Jonah—stared blankly into the fire, thumb wedged in his mouth, his other hand tangled in Torvee's sleeve. She didn't shift him away. Her arm stayed wrapped around him, steady, protective, as if she had done it her whole life.
Elara's chest tightened. That boy had lost everything, and yet he'd found something too. Maybe we all did, she thought, then forced the idea away before it could soften her.
---
The night stretched, brittle as glass. Some survivors snapped under it. A woman started sobbing uncontrollably, loud and jagged. Another shouted at her to be quiet, that she was drawing danger. The two nearly came to blows until Luke stepped between them, quiet but firm. His presence calmed them, but it didn't last. Soon another argument broke out—over food, over furs, over who should watch the perimeter.
Garrett silenced that one with a look alone. His gaze carried weight none of them understood.
Elara shifted uncomfortably. Every moment, the divide grew: humans desperate and fracturing, wolves steady and silent. And she was caught in between, seeing truths no one else could see. The silver shimmer refused to leave her sight now. In every cluster of survivors, glows pulsed faint and undeniable. Green, and blue. Only a thin handful stood bare. The humans were the minority, even if they didn't know it.
Her hand trembled where it rested on her knee. Caleb noticed. He leaned closer, his voice low. "You're shaking."
"I'm fine," she lied. "Just cold."
His hand brushed hers briefly, grounding, but his eyes searched her face too long. He knew she wasn't fine. He just didn't press. Not yet.
---
The tension broke not with a scream or a fight, but with silence. The forest went still, the way it had before the blood moon howls. Every head lifted. Every breath stilled.
Amber's hand went to her knife. Garrett's posture straightened, his chin tilting as if listening to a voice only he could hear.
Then a figure stepped from the treeline.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with hair as black as the night around him. Gold eyes glowed faint in the firelight, steady and unblinking. Riven.
The Alpha.
He walked into the hollow with the unhurried certainty of someone who had never been refused a place. Behind him, wolves followed. Some padded on four legs, coats thick and dark. Others strode upright, men and women with that same sharp stillness, gazes cutting, every motion controlled. The survivors scrambled back, fear rippling through them like a wave. Knives lifted. Children were pulled close.
Elara's breath caught. She had seen Riven before, the barn, the dreams. Now there was no mistaking him, no mistaking what he was. Alpha. Power made flesh.
Riven stopped at the center of the hollow. His gaze swept the survivors, unflinching, unreadable. He didn't speak at once. He let the silence press, let the fear thicken. Then, when no one could bear it any longer, he moved.
He shifted.
The change was smooth, seamless, terrifyingly natural. His form bent and stretched, bones realigning, fur rippling into being. One breath, man. The next, wolf. Huge, golden-eyed, his fur silver-streaked. A growl rumbled from his chest, low and resonant, not a threat but a statement.
Gasps and cries split the camp. Someone screamed. Someone else dropped their knife. Jonah buried his face in Torvee's sleeve, trembling. The woman who had accused earlier clutched her child and sobbed.
Then, just as fluidly, Riven shifted back. Man again, bare-chested, skin steaming faint in the cold night air, every line of him sharp as carved stone. His voice carried when he spoke, deep and absolute.
"You live," he said, "because my pack held the line."
No one moved. The fire cracked, the only sound daring to exist.
"You fear us. You should. But know this—without us, you would already be bones in Ravenholt. Ferals do not stop. They do not pity. They do not spare." His golden eyes cut through the silence, holding them all pinned. "We are not feral. We are pack."
His words rolled like thunder, undeniable, inescapable. Some survivors sobbed openly. Others stared in horrified awe. The truth was no longer hidden. Wolves walked among them. Wolves had saved them.
Riven's gaze swept once more, then lingered on Elara. Just long enough for her to feel the weight of it, the pull she'd felt before in dreams. Then he turned, looking back at his pack.
"This is who we are," he said simply. "You will accept it. Or you will not. But you will not live without it."
The hollow held its breath. The survivors had their answer, whether they wanted it or not.