Lucien’s POV

    The forest was a living thing.

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    Every branch creaked like a whisper, every shift of shadow a predator waiting to pounce. I had spent my life slipping through ces like this–enemy lines,

    contested borders, ambush fields—but never had I felt the weight of eyes quite so heavily as I did tonight.

    I knew the risk when I crossed into Western territory alone. My generals had begged me not to, but I needed more than patrol reports. I needed ito /isee their defenses myself. To scent the earth, to taste the rhythm of their watch rotations, to understand the pulse of the wolves who would soon stand against mine.

    But stealth has a price.

    Hours before I crossed the border, I had stood in the witch’s chamber. Her firelit den smelled of smoke and bitter herbs, the vials on her shelves glinting like captured stars. She had offered me the potion with a thin smile.

    “A single dose,” she warned. “It will mask your scent, drown your wolf’s voice, even bury your Alpha aura. No nose will track you. No wolf will sense you. But-”

    “But it weakens me,” I had finished, staring at the ck liquid.

    She inclined her head. “A de cuts both ways. Take it, and you walk invisible, But you walk half a wolf.”

    And I had taken it. For the sake of my pack, for the sake of strategy, I had let the burn of the potion slide into my veins. My wolf had snarled in protest, his strength muffled, his senses dulled. I felt hollow, muted.

    It had worked–too well. I slipped past Western patrols, unseen, unheard. I memorized their rotations, their weak points, the gaps in their vignce. For a time, everything went ording to n.

    Until the rogues came.

    8:02 Tue, bSep /bb9 /b

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    They poured from the trees like smoke–half–starved, wild–eyed, their howls shattering the silence. Not Western wolves, not disciplined soldiers, but scavengers who had scented prey. They shouldn’t have noticed me at all… but the potion that cloaked me from the West had stripped me of my aura. To them, I wasn’t an Alpha. I was prey.

    One lunged, its ws raking across my ribs before I could strike back. The pain tore through me, hot and ragged. Another hit me from the side, teeth sinking into my shoulder. I fought–Moon above, I fought–but without my wolf’s full strength, every movement dragged like lead.

    By the time I broke their necks and drove them off, my shirt was slick with blood. My body screamed with each step. I staggered deeper into the forest, cursing the witch’s potion. If I’d had my full strength, they never would have touched me.

    And yet… fate is cruel.

    “Enough.”

    The voice stopped me cold. Low,manding. Familiar. But it was unusually hoarse.

    Aria.

    She emerged from the shadows, moonlight glinting off the wolf–head mask that hid her features. Her de gleamed wet with rogue blood, her presence heavy enough to silence the surviving strays. They fled before her aura as if driven by fire.

    I leaned against a treei, /ibreath ragged, watching her advance.

    Of all the wolves in the West, it had to ibe /iher.

    Her eyes, sharp and silver beneath the mask, fixed on me. She could have called the guards. Could have dragged me before Aedric and dered me an enemy spy. My fate should have been sealed the moment she recognized me.

    But she didn’t move.

    8:02 Tue, Sep 9

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    Instead, she stepped closer. Her gaze swept over the blood soaking my ribs, my shoulder. Something flickered in her stare—anger, perhaps, or… hesitation.

    “Stormridge,” she said, her tone edged but not final. “What in the Moon’s name are you doing bleeding on my border?”

    I let out a dryugh. “Admiring the scenery.”

    Her head tilted. “You’re a terrible liar.”

    I expected her de. Instead, I felt her hand grip my arm. Firm. Strong. She half- dragged, half–guided me through the trees. My wolf snarled at the indignity, but my body betrayed me. The wound throbbed too sharply for resistance.

    We reached an abandoned outpost, little more than a stone shelter swallowed by moss and ivy. She pushed me inside, shutting the door behind us. The night sounds dulled, leaving only the rasp of my breathing and the faint clink of her

    armor.

    “Sit,” she ordered.

    I should have refused. Should have reminded her that I was her enemy, that her mercy was treason. But my legs buckled before my pride could form words. I sank onto the bench, clutching my side.

    She knelt before me, pulling a satchel from her belt. Herbs, cloth, a sk of water. Amander prepared not only to kill, but to mend. My eyes narrowed.

    “Why?” I demanded. “Why not hand me over?”

    Her hands moved with steady precision, tearing the fabric of my shirt to expose the wound. “Because you intrigue me, Eastern Alpha. And because…” Her voice faltered, just for a breath, before steel returned. “Because you’re more useful alive than dead.”

    I watched her work, her fingers brushing close enough for my wolf to bristle at the contact. Yet there was no mockery in her touch, no triumph. Only focus. Only…

    care.

    8:02 Tueb, /bbSep /bb9 /b

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    At one point she reached for a vial, her mask slipping slightly as she bent to pour its contents. With a hiss, she tugged it off entirely for a heartbeat, wiping sweat from her brow.

    And in that instant-

    I saw her profile.

    The curve of her cheekbone caught the moonlight, the slope of her nose, the line of her lips. My heart mmed against my ribs. It was Riley. Or rather–so like Riley it was impossible not to see her ghost.

    My breath caught. My chest constricted. My mind screamed denial even as my eyes begged for another glimpse.

    But then she slipped the mask back on, faster than a blink, her expression shuttered.

    I blinked hard, heart pounding. Had I imagined it? Was it just delirium, blood loss twisting memory into flesh?

    “Hold still,” she snapped, as if nothing had happened.

    I obeyed, too shaken to argue. The burn of herbs filled the room, sharp and grounding. She bound my ribs with cloth, firm enough to sting, steady enough to anchor me.

    When she finished, she sat back, her masked face unreadable.

    “You’ll live,” she said. “But if you value that life, you’ll get out of here before dawn.”

    I met her gaze, silver eyes boring into mine. The mask hid her face, but not the pull between us, raw and unspoken.

    I should have left it at that. But the words slipped from me before I could stop them.

    “I saw you,” I whispered. “Just now. Your face—it’s—”

    8:02 Tue, Sep 9

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    Her hand shot out, gripping my throat–not to crush, but to silence. Her eyes red, warning and electric.

    “You saw nothing,” she said, voice low, dangerous. “Remember that, Stormridge. Or it will be thest thing you ever see.”

    And yet, beneath the steel, I swore I felt her fingers tremble.

    8:02 Tue, Sep 9