The forest had never felt so empty.
Kieran moved through the pines like a ghost, each step swallowed by the thick carpet of needles and frost. The wind clawed at his hair, threading through the cracks in his armor, biting into his skin like punishment he knew he deserved. The night air was sharp and cruel, the kind that stripped away every pretense and left only what was raw and unhealed.
Every breath scraped against his throat, tasting of iron and regret. He'd been walking since dusk, following no path, guided by nothing but the relentless ache in his chest. The moon hung above him like an accusation, cold and unblinking.
He had told himself he just needed air. That he'd go for a run, clear his head, maybe calm the storm that had been building since she left. But now—hours later—he knew he'd been searching for something that didn't exist. A way to undo what couldn't be undone.
Elara's face haunted him with every blink. The way she had looked at him before she left — that silent, shattered look that said you've killed something in me.
He had seen anger before, seen wolves snarl and lash out in pain. But Elara's eyes had been worse. Not rage. Not hatred. Just the hollow, empty kind of hurt that made him feel smaller than he'd ever been.
He gritted his teeth until his jaw ached. "I didn't mean—"But the forest didn't care for apologies.
Only the wind answered, wailing through the pines like an old spirit mourning something lost long ago.
Kieran kept moving. His boots crunched over frozen soil, and somewhere far off, an owl cried out. The sound echoed through the night like a warning.
A faint rustle cut through the silence. Instinct snapped his attention toward it. He went still—every sense sharp, every muscle coiled. The next moment, a scent drifted through the air—faint, sharp, foreign. Not Silvercrest.
Blackridge.
He froze, every nerve on edge. The mountain pack. Kael Thorn's wolves.
They were here. In his territory.
His mind raced. The last time their packs had crossed paths, it had ended in blood and threats whispered beneath the full moon. The Blackridge wolves didn't wander this far south without purpose.
And he knew what purpose that would be.
For a heartbeat, instinct screamed at him to turn back. To warn the patrols, alert the sentries, do his duty. That's what Beta Garrick's son should do. That's what a loyal Silvercrest wolf would do.
But that thought died as quickly as it came. His father's face flashed in his mind—stern, cold, carved from disappointment. Beta Garrick hadn't looked at him with pride in years. Only with a silent, suffocating pity that stung worse than scolding.
You've ruined everything, that gaze always said.
If he brought Elara back—if he delivered her to the wolves who sought her—it would prove he could still be useful. Still capable. Still worth something.
Kieran clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms. He could almost hear his father's voice in the wind: Do something right for once.
He crept closer to the sound, keeping low, the shadows swallowing him whole. The trees thinned just enough to reveal movement ahead—two Blackridge scouts weaving through the mist, their silhouettes steady and deliberate. Broad-shouldered, alert, dangerous. They moved like wolves born to the hunt.
Kieran's pulse thundered in his ears. His wolf stirred uneasily beneath his skin, pacing, growling, warning him that this path led to ruin. But Kieran ignored it. He always did.
"Wait!" he called out suddenly, his voice cutting through the fog like a blade.
The two scouts stopped instantly. Both turned in perfect synchronization, growls low and rolling through the cold air. One of them shifted halfway, eyes glowing gold beneath his hood, fangs just visible in the dim light.
Kieran raised his hands, palms open, breath coming fast. "It's me—Kieran Blackwood of Silvercrest!"
The growling didn't stop. The forest held its breath.
"I know what you're here for," he said quickly, lowering his voice. "You're looking for her. Elara."
The name hit the air like a curse. The scouts' growls faded, replaced by wary silence.
"I can help you," Kieran went on, desperation cracking through his tone. "No one has to know. I can make sure you find her first. Just… tell your Alpha it came from me."
The two wolves exchanged a look—a flicker of silent communication, sharp and precise. Kieran could almost feel their suspicion slicing through the mist.
One of them stepped forward, tilting his head. His golden eyes studied Kieran with predatory patience. "Why would a Silvercrest betray his own pack?"
Kieran's throat tightened. The words were simple, but they hit harder than any blade. He forced himself to breathe, to hold that gaze. "Because I already did," he whispered.
The forest went still. Even the wind seemed to stop listening.
And then one of the scouts—taller, scarred across the jaw—nodded once, slow and deliberate.
"Fine," the scout said, voice low, guttural. "But if you cross us—"
"I won't."
The words came too fast, too certain. He almost believed them himself.
The wolves exchanged another glance before melting back into the fog, their forms vanishing between the trees like shadows reclaiming the dark.
Kieran hesitated only a moment before following, every step heavier than the last. The air grew colder the deeper they went, the mist curling around him like a shroud.
His wolf whimpered inside him, restless and grieving.
He told himself this was redemption. That if he could do this—if he could help them—maybe he could finally make things right. Maybe he could silence the guilt clawing at his insides.
But deep down, he knew better.
Every step he took reeked of betrayal.
And somewhere behind him, the forest whispered her name like a warning he refused to hear.