The forest held its breath that morning.
There were no howls, no rustling patrols through the underbrush, no steel-slick clang of weapons from the sparring ring. Just silence—thick, sacred, and humming with meaning. A hush that curled through pine and cedar like the woods themselves had paused, waiting for something to begin… or end.
I stood on the porch of the Alpha house, cradling a mug that had long gone cold. The air smelled of damp bark and old smoke, of mist and memory. Above, the sun was little more than a pale coin behind the clouds, not yet brave enough to break through.
Beyond these trees—past the hollow roots and starlit stones of our borderlands—my daughter was packing her life into a suitcase.
Dwyn.
The first cry that ever ripped from my throat as a father was for her.
She arrived in this world with the voice of a storm and the eyes of the sea before it turned violent—silver, sharp, full of depth no one could quite name. The others in the pack whispered about her skin, dark as rain-soaked earth, as if it were an omen or a deviation from bloodline. They didn't understand. Couldn't.
She wasn't less.
She was more.
Half siren. Half wolf. Every inch Alpha.
She has the power to call tides and crush bone with her bare hands, and still… she doesn't know.
I'd named her my heir when she was twelve years old—now she was leaving us. Leaving the territory. Leaving me. And I had to let her.
A soft creak on the wooden slats behind me announced Cecil's arrival. She moved like sunrise—warm, deliberate, calm even when the world wasn't. She tucked her curls into a knot and wrapped her coat tight, her eyes sweeping over me as if reading my pulse without needing to ask.
"You're thinking too loud," she said gently, sipping from her mug.
"She's leaving."
Cecil didn't flinch. Her smile came slow and steady. "She's flying, love."
I exhaled through my nose, the weight of my bones suddenly heavier than usual. "We should be with her. When she goes."
"I already packed the girls' bags."
I blinked and turned to her. "You assumed?"
She raised an elegant brow. "No. I prepared. There's a difference."
From inside, something crashed—a chair? A shelf? Gods only knew—and a riot of laughter followed like a thunderclap.
The triplets.
Viora. Fiora. Liora. Eight years old and already enough trouble to fell kingdoms.
"She's gonna be so famous!"
"I bet she dyed her hair blue!"
"I'm packing my sparkliest boots in case we get interviewed!"
I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. "Are they planning to hijack the airport?"
"Honestly?" Cecil smirked. "It's a distinct possibility."
But even their chaos couldn't touch the stillness I felt in my chest.
A knowing.
This—all of this—was right.
Dwyn needed to see us. Needed to feel, before she stepped into that sky-bound future, the tether of home still warm against her skin. The pack—her real pack—stood with her. We always had.
I stepped inside just in time to see Fiora trying to stuff her favorite stuffed fox into a backpack already bursting with snacks, glitter pens, and goddess knew what else.
"Papa!" Liora yelled, spotting me. "Do you think Dwyn will let me braid her hair before she becomes, like, ultra-famous and gets laser hair people or whatever?"
"I don't think she'd ever say no to you," I said, crouching to help her with the zipper. "Even if she's on stage with a crown on her head."
Fiora grinned. "I'm bringing glitter just in case she needs it!"
Then Viora tugged softly at my sleeve.
"We're going to miss her."
Her voice was small. Honest in the way only pups can be.
I knelt beside her, resting a hand over her heart. "She'll miss you too, little wolf. But she's not leaving us. She's becoming herself."
"Because she's special?"
I nodded. "Because she knows she's special. And that's even rarer."
They didn't say anything after that. They just leaned against me in a silent puppy-pile of limbs and hope, and I let them.
Behind us, Cecil moved like a queen in a war camp—calm, competent, already gathering coats, snacks, water bottles, a travel pillow shaped like a unicorn, and an extra thermos of coffee for me that she didn't bother asking if I wanted. She just knew.
"The truck's loaded," she said, sliding her sunglasses onto her head. "If we leave by ten, we'll beat the press."
I glanced once more around the great hall. The fire burned low in the hearth, casting gold shadows over the worn wolfskin rug. A half-finished carving sat on the mantel—Dwyn's, I realized. She must've left it behind on her last visit. A smooth crescent of driftwood, etched with the rising moon.
I ran my thumb along its edge.
She had the soul of a tide.
The spine of a warrior.
And now she had the wings of a future none of us could've dreamed.
We weren't going to the human town to say goodbye.
We were going to bear witness.
To a girl who had never been just a girl.
To the heir of Duskthorn who had the wildness of a siren, the blood of wolves, and a voice that was finally, gloriously, her own.
And when she turned toward that plane, passport in hand, eyes lit with stars?, She'd see us there. Every last wild, ridiculous, unshakable piece of her world— rooted, howling, home.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
I found Beta Parker already waiting near the stone path where the old clinic once stood. He was dressed sharp, as always, though he wore tradition like armor instead of pride. His arms were folded, his stance stiff. A man trying too hard not to look like he disapproved.
"Alpha," he greeted.
"Parker."
A beat passed.
"She flies today, I assume."
I nodded. "We're going to see her off."
He arched one brow. "The whole family?"
"Cecil, the girls, and I."
"I see."
Silence stretched between us, taut as wire. He didn't say the thing outright—he never did—but the implication hung there, unspoken and sour.
"She's made quite the… name for herself," he added.
"She's earned it."
"Through music," he said, as though that were somehow lesser.
I studied him. "You have doubts."
"I have concerns," he replied, measured and careful. "A pack without its heir feels… rudderless."
"She's still heir."
"From another continent?" he asked mildly. "Forgive me, Alpha, but that's not what the bloodline was meant for."
I stepped forward, just enough to remind him who led whom. "The bloodline was meant for strength. For spirit. She's shown both."
"She's… gifted," he allowed. "But even the moon calls sons to lead."
I smiled thinly. "The moon also pulled the tide when she was born."
His expression twitched, just for a second. He didn't like it when I spoke of her power as natural. As inevitable.
"She'll return," I said. "And when she does, it will not be to prove herself. It will be to claim what she's already earned."
Parker inclined his head, the way men do when they disagree but know better than to say so.
"I'll keep things in order while you're gone."
"You'll keep things honest," I corrected.
A flicker of something passed over his face—pride, maybe. Or doubt disguised as diplomacy.
"I'll do what's best for the pack," he said.
That, I believed.
But not that she was included in his vision of what was best.
Still, I nodded. And turned.
Cecil stood by the truck, helping the triplets into their coats and boots. One of them had a clipboard. The other two wore matching sunglasses, though the sun hadn't broken through the fog yet. They looked ready for a runway.
"Papa!" Viora called. "Do you think we'll be in the background of a music video if we stand really still at the airport?"
"Maybe," I said, ruffling her curls. "Or maybe they'll put you on stage."
"We packed glitter just in case," Liora added.
I looked at Cecil, who just smiled and held up a thermos. "Coffee. Patience. Snacks. Let's go."
As we pulled away from the house, I caught one last glimpse of Parker still standing at the edge of the trees.
Silent.
Watching.
Waiting for a world that no longer belonged to him.
But I wasn't waiting anymore.
My daughter had chosen her sky.
Now, I would stand beside her at the edge of it.
And let her fly.