The council hall smells like rain, cedar, and paper that's been folded too many times. Chairs scrape into a circle that isn't quite a circle. Billy settles with a soft clack of wheels. Old men take their same seats like usual. Sam stands, not sitting, pen in hand. Leah posts up by the door, arms folded, eyes busy.
I pick a chair that faces the window so I can remember the trees. Breathe.
Rina drops a folder in front of Sam. "Map," she says. "Treaty line and the side roads folks use when they're lost or dumb."
Embry leans forward, elbows on knees. Paul leans back, a grin hooked on his face like a bad habit. Jared fiddles with a pen until Sue takes it away without looking.
Sam clears his throat. "Wedding's soon." He doesn't dress it up. "Town'll be loud. Cullen traffic will increase. We keep our lines. They keep theirs. Same as always."
"Always wasn't invited to a circus," one of the older men says Mr. James, chin bristled white, voice sound rough. "This is a show."
"It's a wedding," Billy says, steady. "Ours or not, it's a wedding in Forks."
Paul's grin sharpens. "In Forks, not here. Which is real sweet 'til their shiny car line wanders into our backyard. Then what? Smile and wave?"
A murmur. Not agreement. Not disagreement. Just heat moving around the room looking for a place to sit.
Sam uncaps the pen and taps the laminated map. "West ravine. East access. River turn. No one crosses for any reason unless I call it. If a guest wanders."
"—we escort," Sue finishes. "Polite. Quick. No stories for them to tell later."
Old Quil's eyes crease. "Treaty stands because we honor it. Not because we posture. Remember that."
"That treaty was built for men," Mr. James says, clicking his tongue. "Our grandfathers didn't sign up to watch a child marry into monsters."
"Words," Leah says. "Pick better ones."
"Watch your tone, girl," he snaps.
"Watch your century," she returns, clean as a blade.
Sam lifts a palm. The room drops a degree. "We will not debate the marriage." His voice is quiet; it carries. "We will talk about keeping our people safe."
Paul blows out a breath. "Our people includes the kid we're losing."
Leah's jaw works. The silence after that sentence is the dangerous kind, the kind with old grief in it.
Sam doesn't flinch. "We're not losing anyone tonight." He taps the river bend. "This turn is weak. It looks like a shortcut. It isn't. Rina, Ana you hold that. If someone heads down, you steer them back to town. No shapeshift. No show."
I nod. "Copy."
Mr. James's gaze lands on me for the first time, eyes sliding to the white at my hairline that the wolf left behind. "Branch family," he says, like an address he refuses to learn. "You got ideas about our law now?"
"Mr. James," Sue warns.
"It's fine," I say. I keep my voice small, even. "I only have the one idea. Protect peace, not pride."
The room pauses like I threw a rock in a still pond and everyone watched the ripple to see if it's going to be a snake. Paul smirks. Jared's mouth tilts, almost a smile. Embry looks down so I don't see his grin.
Mr. James's eyebrows jump. "Peace is what folks say when they're afraid to stand."
"Pride is what folks pick when they want a fight to feel holy," I answer, before I can talk myself out of it. Breathe. Don't bite. "If people don't bleed, we did it right. That's all I mean."
Leah's eyes tick to me, quick. Not rescue. A noted.
"Easy to preach peace when you weren't here for the last time," Mr. James says. "You weren't on the line when your mother..."
"Enough," Billy says, not loud. The word lands like a door closing. "We don't make the daughter pay the mother's mistake."
Heat rolls off Paul. He's smiling; he isn't happy. "Peace is cute 'til it gets someone killed."
"And pride's useful 'til it burns down your own porch," Leah says.
Sam sets the pen down and the small sound is bigger than the room. "We'll use the old plan." He points around the map, naming posts. "Pairs. Human where we can, wolf if we must. If it gets hot, you call. You don't invent heroics."
"Where do we stand," an auntie asks from the second row, "if they step wrong in front of ours? Say… the treaty line and a camera. Say a guest sees too much."
"We block the sightline," Sue says. "With bodies, with cars, with jokes. Make it boring."
"Boring works," Embry says, raising a hand like he needs permission to agree.
Mr. James scowls at me again. "Protect peace, not pride," he repeats, like tasting something he didn't order. "Easy words."
"They're small," I say. "That's why they fit."
The elders shift like their chairs got harder. Rina coughs into her fist to hide a laugh. Leah doesn't look at me, but the line of her mouth says you'll live.
Billy turns the map so the light hits the river bend. "We keep the old rules," he says. "We keep the old courtesy. We keep the young from doing something they can't un-do." His gaze settles on Paul, then on Jared, then, briefly, on me. It feels like impersonal and right.
Paul spreads his hands, all wounded innocence. "What? I'm a delight."
"Mm," Leah says, unimpressed.
Sam gathers the markers. "Roster goes up in ten. If you're not on it, it's because I put you where you'll do the least damage. Argue later."
Mr. James rises with the slow dignity of someone who has been listened to his whole life and doesn't like the new notes. "A wolf that's white telling us about pride," he mutters, not quiet. "World's upside down."
"World's always been upside down," Sue says, sweeping the table clean with a rag. "We just notice more when it rains."
Chairs scrape back. Bodies move. The noise climbs now that the work is decided: safe talk, easy complaints. Embry is already asking Rina if he can borrow her truck. She says no with her eyes and he laughs anyway. Jared pockets a pen he didn't earn. Leah uncrosses her arms and lets them fall loose.
I collect extra flyers from the corner and stack them square. The paper edges bite my thumb.
On my way out, Mr. James's wife: small, fierce, hair pinned with a clip older than me, steps into my path. "You meant it?" she asks. "Peace over pride."
"Yes, ma'am," I say.
"You keep that when it's your turn to bleed."
"Yes, ma'am," I say again.
She studies my face, finds something she can live with, and nods once. Then she says, almost kind, "You're your mother's eyes. Try not to be her choices."
"I'm trying," I say.
Outside, the rain has stopped pretending and starts in earnest. Gravel pops under tires. The hall light spills a shape onto the lot like a door we forgot to shut. Sam stands at the edge of the overhang, looking toward the trees, unreadable as ground.
Leah joins me under the drip line. "You picked a fight in a polite voice," she says.
"Did I?"
"Mm." She bumps her shoulder into mine, quick and not tender. "Good sentence, though."
"Thanks."
"You'll pay for it later." She almost smiles. "Still worth it."
Paul brushes past on his way to the road. "Hey, Branch," he says without stopping. "Save me some of that peace when the party hits the line."
"I will," I say. "You can borrow it."
He scoffs. "I don't borrow."
"I know," I say.
The door swings again. Billy rolls out, rain spotting the arms of his chair. He tips his chin at the sky and then at me. "You stirred the pot."
"Only a little."
"Good stew needs it. Too much, you ruin dinner." His eyes crinkle. "We'll see."
He heads for the ramp. The elders follow hats pulled low, mouths set, eyes still hot. Their annoyance walks ahead of them. I let it pass over me. It's not my storm to fix. It's my storm to work under.
Rina tosses me the keys without looking. "South bend," she says. "Let's go protect your sentence."
We climb into the truck. The wipers try their best. The road to the river is rutted and honest. Trees crowd close like family you can't shake. I rest my palms on my knees and let my breath find a steady track.
Protect peace, not pride. Small words. Enough to make old men frown. Enough to be a job in the rain.