The hand over Tristan's mouth was large, steady, and cold. He was yanked backward through the brush; his lantern was kicked aside, and the light vanished. Rope bit into his wrists. A strip of cloth slid over his eyes, blotting out the faint glimmer from the forest floor.
"Do not fight," a low voice said near his ear. "Walk, or I will drag you."
Tristan squirmed, and when the grip eased, he blurted out, "Please, I won't scream. But don't cover my mouth and nose; I can't breathe like that."
He counted: six steps backward, a left turn, a short uphill climb, then a halt.
"What do you want?" he asked when the hand left his mouth.
"To make sure he hears you when I decide," the voice said.
"Who are you?"
"Someone who knows exactly what you are."
Tristan went quiet. The man's steps were measured, the pull on the rope constant. He heard no other bodies moving through the brush—no careless scuff, no heavy breathing. Whoever held him had worked alone for a long time.
"Why the traps in the woods?" Tristan asked after a moment.
"Because they make your Alpha move," the man said. "Because they tell me who he brings with him. I needed to see if he would bring you."
"So this is about Shannon."
"It's always about him. And the one who trails him like a shadow."
"Bran," Tristan said.
The man did not answer. His hands moved quickly over the knots at Tristan's wrists, checking and testing with precision. He tightened nothing; he loosened nothing.
"You left maps," Tristan pressed, voice low. "You drew his face. You wrote my name. Why?"
"To make it clear," the man said. "He won't get to pretend he didn't understand."
The rope bit deeper when Tristan flexed. "What do you want with me?"
"Leverage," the man said simply. "He will come if it is you."
The abductor whistled; a second whistle answered from the trees. Tristan's mouth went dry.
"You're not alone," he said.
"Depends what you call alone," the man replied.
Branches whispered; leaves swayed. Tristan kept silent, straining for any sound of help—footsteps, another whistle, a signal he recognized. Nothing came.
"Let me see your face," he demanded, forcing steel into his voice.
"Later."
The man hauled him to his feet and guided him forward, steady and careful. He never let Tristan stumble, but he never loosened his grip. They dipped into a shallow hollow screened by brush.
A makeshift shelter lay hidden, its skin of bark and dry leaves blending with the forest floor. Inside, a thin mat, a satchel, and a small oil lamp. The sour stench suggested a week or two of use.
The blindfold came off. Tristan's ankles were free, his wrists still bound. He measured the distance back through the brush. If he ran, he might not get far.
The man wore a hood and scarf that hid most of his face. Only his eyes showed—piercing, sharp, feral. They did not blink.
"You're a wolf," Tristan said.
"Surprised? Not yours," the man answered flatly, offering a mocking bow.
Tristan's gaze flicked to the satchel, the careful marks on the shelter frame. This was not a wanderer who had happened upon him. This was deliberate.
"What is your name?" Tristan asked.
"Later," the man repeated, dimming the lamp. "Be quiet now."
A sound threaded through the trees: soft, controlled, almost silent. Then another, closing in from the side. Tristan's heart kicked. He knew that sound. Shannon moved like that. So did Kim. So did Bran when he wanted to vanish against bark and shadow.
"Here they come," the hooded man murmured. "Good. He didn't leave you for others."
"If you want to speak to him, stop this," Tristan urged. "There are other ways to do this."
"This is the way that works," the man replied.
A figure slipped over the edge of the hollow. Shannon stepped out first, hands open and visible, every motion deliberate. Kim shadowed him a pace behind. Mira took the flank, eyes sharp and calm. Bran kept to the trees, his gaze locked on the hooded man.
Shannon's eyes fell to Tristan's bound wrists. His voice was low and steady. "Let him go."
"Hello, Alpha," the man said. "I wondered if you would come yourself."
"Let him go," Shannon repeated, tone absolute.
"Not yet. I want answers." The man pulled the scarf down just far enough to speak, keeping the hood low. "Listen to my voice. Who am I?"
Recognition flickered in Shannon's eyes, but he said nothing.
Bran moved forward, and Kim caught him with an arm across the chest. Bran's voice cracked on the words. "Say your name."
The man smiled, thin and joyless. "Have you forgotten my scent? Good to see you, little brother."
Tristan's breath caught. He turned to Bran, who stood frozen, hands shaking.
"Alive," Bran whispered. "You're alive."
"Yes," the man said. For now."
Shannon's tone shifted—quiet, commanding. "Aiden. Remove the rope. Now."
"If you step closer, I'll pull it tighter," Aiden warned.
"You will remove the rope," Shannon said, each word final.
No one moved for a heartbeat. Then Aiden drew a knife and sliced the rope in one clean motion. He shoved Tristan toward Shannon. Kim pulled Tristan behind him. Mira slid closer, guarding the gap.
Aiden lifted both hands, palms empty. "Now we talk."
Shannon took a single step.
Aiden let out a sharp whistle. To the left, a snare snapped; a weighted line whipped upward with vicious force.
"Careful," Aiden said. "I did not come unprepared."
Slowly, he pushed the hood higher. Bran's breath broke into a sob.
"Say it," Aiden ordered.
Bran's throat worked. "Brother."
Aiden's smile widened, cold as iron. "Good. Then let us discuss why your Alpha let me die."
Silence fell like a dropped stone. The hollow seemed to shrink around them. Tristan's wrists throbbed where the rope had bitten, but his chest hurt worse for Bran, who looked torn between fury and relief. Shannon's face remained unreadable.
Aiden's eyes glinted in the lamp's faint light. "I've waited years for this moment. I want the truth—from you, Alpha. From you, Bran. From all of you."
Shannon did not rise to the bait. "You have our attention."
Aiden tipped his head toward the trees. "You have the advantage now. You have your hunters, your Beta, your Alpha. Yet you step into my circle and tell me to drop my blade. Interesting."
"We came to take him back," Shannon said, indicating Tristan with a slight motion. "You accomplished that much."
"And more," Aiden said. "Your borders are weaker than they used to be. Markers tampered with. Old snares left to rot. New snares laid with care. Who watches your edges now, Alpha? Who keeps your people safe?"
Mira's voice held no heat. "We clear them as we find them. The old ones are being mapped."
"Map this," Aiden said, and he tapped his temple. "There is a hunter who should be a memory. He lives. He watched me crawl through ash while your patrols went the other way."
"Who?" Shannon asked.
Aiden hesitated. The name seemed to snag in his throat. "Later," he said. "When you stop pretending our dead are all buried."
Kim's attention flicked to the treeline, then back. "If you know his scent, you know he's not alone. He will not stand inside our borders without support."
Aiden's eyes cooled further. "Your borders are not walls. You truly believe that?"
Shannon's voice softened a fraction. "Bran thought you dead."
Bran flinched like the words were a lash. "We burned for you," he said, hoarse. "I saw your blood. I smelled it. I—"
"You smelled what they wanted you to," Aiden cut in. "They wanted a story and a body. The body was someone else's. The story was mine."
Tristan found his voice. "Why write my name? Why draw his face?" He nodded toward Shannon. "Why not simply strike at the man you hate?"
Aiden looked at him with those feral eyes. "Because you are the piece he moves when he wants to show he cares. Because he took you from a pit and thinks that binds the world to his will. Because every Alpha must learn where his line breaks."
Shannon stepped between them. "Enough. If you came for blood, you would have taken it when you had the chance. You came for answers."
"I came for reckoning," Aiden said. "Answers are the first cut."
He backed a pace into the shadows. Kim tensed but did not follow. Mira lifted a hand—wait.
Aiden's gaze moved across them all, cold and measuring. "You have three days," he said. "After that, I stop asking."
"And start what?" Bran asked, voice low.
"Finishing what they started," Aiden answered.
He slipped into the trees so cleanly the brush hardly stirred. The lamp flame fluttered, then steadied. For a long time no one spoke.
Kim exhaled. "We should move."
Shannon nodded. "We're done here."
Tristan glanced back once at the darkness where Aiden had disappeared. Somewhere beyond that black weave of trunks and shadows, old stories were waking up with teeth.
He followed Shannon out of the hollow, the ache in his wrists already fading beneath a newer sensation: the feeling that whatever waited for them now had finally stepped from rumor into breath. A ghost had taken on flesh, and it knew their names.