The group reached Ravenholt without a problem.
The noble wolves had kept their silent promise, shadows pacing the tree line, their howls echoing far off to keep the ferals at bay. For once, the road was clear. Not a single yellow eye flickered from the undergrowth, not a single claw scraped the stone. By dawn, the castle walls of Ravenholt loomed from the mist, their towers jagged against the pale sky.
Elara's legs trembled when she saw them. Home. Or what passed for it. The walls were patched with scavenged timber and sheet metal, the old gate reinforced with rusted cars welded into place. Smoke curled from chimneys, the tang of ash and bread riding the morning air.
The guards leaned from the ramparts at their call, then the gates creaked open on groaning hinges.
They were home.
---
Inside, the return was hailed as a victory.
The overturned truck had given them more than they'd dreamed — crates of tins, bundles of bolts, a handful of rifles, even medicine sealed in cracked plastic. The council pored over every item, muttering among themselves. For once, their wrinkled mouths turned up at the corners.
"You did well," one said, clapping Caleb on the shoulder with a rare smile. "This will keep Ravenholt fed for weeks."
Caleb gave a stiff nod, jaw tight. He didn't look at Elara.
They didn't question Luke.
He stood among them with his head bowed, clothes ragged, face set in the hollow-eyed weariness of a boy too young for war but already carved by it. When asked, Caleb only said, "A stray. Found him near the wreck." And that was that.
The leaders didn't press. Strays had been rarer these past years, but not unheard of. Luke looked ordinary enough, gaunt and quiet, eager to help when crates needed lifting. He blended into the crowd like he'd always been there.
No one suspected.
Elara stayed behind Caleb, her sleeves pulled long, her bandages wrapped tight. The glow of her veins was hidden well enough in daylight, though she felt it pulsing beneath the wrappings, restless as a caged fire. She kept her head down and her hands busy, stacking tins, fetching water, unloading gear.
The council's eyes slid past her as though she wasn't even there.
For the first time since the barn, she let herself believe they had pulled it off.
---
The day passed in a blur of labor.
They hauled crates to the storehouses, shifted rifles to the armoury, carted bundles of bolts to the fletchers. Villagers came to help, murmuring their thanks as they carried tins away in baskets. Children followed at their heels, wide-eyed and whispering about heroes returning from the wilds.
Elara smiled weakly at them, though her glow prickled under her skin each time their hands brushed hers. She pulled away quickly, hoping no one noticed.
Luke blended in with ease. Too much ease. He lifted crates without complaint, fetched water, even shared half a loaf with the children who stared at him. He smiled shyly, eyes lowered, and they accepted him as one of their own without a thought.
But Elara kept remembering the barn. The vow in his voice when he'd said: Inside, I will protect you.
She glanced at him often, half-expecting to see the wolf behind his eyes. Instead, she saw only a boy her own age, lean and uncertain, sleeves too short for his arms. A boy who looked no different from the others in Ravenholt.
And yet different. Entirely.
---
By dusk, the work was done. The council dismissed them with nods and muttered approval. For once, there was no shouting, no suspicion, no threats. They had delivered what was asked. They had brought home more than enough.
Caleb should have looked relieved. He only looked tired, his shoulders heavy with unspoken worry. Corin's expression was sharper than usual, her mouth pressed thin as she counted the bolts twice before locking them away. Torvee perched on the gatepost, feathers shedding whenever she shifted, her dark eyes unreadable as they followed Luke's every move.
Elara tugged her sleeve again, reassured by the bandage beneath. The faint shimmer of her veins was hidden. No one had seen. No one had asked.
She breathed. For the first time in days, she almost felt safe.
---
But the cracks came quickly.
At the evening meal, villagers pressed close with questions. "What was it like out there?" "How many did you kill?" "Where did you find all this?"
Caleb deflected most of it with a scowl. "Work needed doing. We did it."
Corin added little more than a sharp, "Does it matter where it came from? You have food in your hands, don't you?"
Torvee smirked and leaned back, letting them argue. Luke stayed quiet, chewing his bread in silence, though his amber eyes flicked constantly to Elara, watchful.
When someone asked about her bandaged arm, Elara's heart lurched.
Caleb spoke before she could. "Scrape from a crate. Nothing more."
The villager accepted it easily, moving on. Elara forced herself to smile, though sweat prickled beneath her hair.
Every time someone looked too closely, every time a hand brushed her sleeve, she feared the glow would betray her.
---
Night settled over Ravenholt. Torches lit the courtyards, their smoke curling into the sky. Music drifted faintly from the far side of the walls, a tune scratched from an old fiddle, laughter bubbling with it. For once, the town seemed alive again.
Elara stood at the edge of the courtyard, her friends scattered nearby. Caleb argued quietly with Corin by the steps, their voices low but tense. Torvee picked at her feathers, muttering to herself. Luke leaned against the wall, his eyes flicking toward her every so often as though measuring the distance between them.
She pulled her sleeve down tighter, reassured by the rough bandage beneath.
She thought she was safe.
Until she felt it.
A weight. A stare.
Her head turned before she could stop herself.
A figure lingered near the gate, half-hidden in the shadows of a ruined tower. His face was pale, almost bloodless, features sharp and familiar.
Too familiar.
Her breath caught. She knew him.
Edrin.
He had been there since she was small — a quiet man who once delivered bread with her father, who had carried sacks across these very courtyards long before the world fell. She had thought him long dead, taken by the ferals in the first years.
But here he stood. Alive. Watching her.
And his eyes…
They glowed.
Not yellow like the ferals. Not amber like the wolves.
Violet.
A soft, impossible shimmer, faint and unnatural — and only she could see it. The torches didn't catch it, no one else turned to look. But the glow burned straight through her.
The veins beneath her bandage pulsed in answer, betraying her with a faint flicker of light.
Edrin's lips curved. Not in surprise. Not in threat.
In recognition.
Her heart pounded. She yanked her sleeve down, stumbling back a step. Caleb's hand caught her arm. "Elara?"
"I'm fine," she whispered, though her voice shook.
Beside the wall, Luke stiffened. His nostrils flared, and a sound rumbled low in his throat — a quiet, animal snarl meant for no one but her ears. His amber eyes locked on the shadows where Edrin stood.
When Elara dared to look back, the space was empty. Edrin was gone.
But the growl in Luke's chest told her she hadn't imagined it. Someone had noticed.
And unlike the council, unlike the villagers, unlike even her friends — both she and Luke knew what that meant.