by Asher North
“You’re awake,” an even voice said and Rhys turned to find Knox Lunalis sitting on his haunches, the hint of a smile on his face.
“Where are we?” Rhys asked. “Where’s Damon and the others?”
“We are near the White Tail den. Some of our friends are with us, others have gone back to the Light,” Knox said, the smile falling from his face faster than the snow from the sky and Rhys felt as if he’d been hollowed out in an instant.
“Damon?”
“Damon is with us,” Knox said.
“Then who…?”
“My brother has moved on,” Knox answered, looking down at his paws.
“Knox, I’m so sorry,” Rhys said. He didn’t know Lux well but the loss pained him. As odd as he found the Lunalis twins, Rhys’s world didn’t seem right without the two of them in it. “All of Moonvalley will miss him,” Rhys said.
“As will I but no wolf can live forever,” Knox said. “He died for a worthy cause so it was not for nothing.”
“A worthy cause?”
“He means you,” a gruff, pained voice said and Rhys squinted to find Eleo huddled with Kaster, his shoulder covered in crusted blood. Kaster lay motionless in the snow, which had been stained red from his own wound.
“I need Damon. Where is he?” Rhys asked. There was no movement in his stomach, no sign of the life they’d created together.
“He’s resting,” Eleo said. “Don’t worry for him.”
“Resting? How could he get any rest after what we went through?” Rhys asked.
“He exhausted himself with concern for you and your child,” Knox said. “We begged him to stop, to attempt to recover and refresh himself after the battle, but he refused so we followed him as far north as our own strength would allow us until he collapsed.” Rhys’s heart grew at that but the feeling was fleeting when he remembered the way that the Reaver had leapt on him and tore into his flesh, the fearful, frozen look on Damon’s face as it happened.
It wasn’t his fault, Rhys told himself, and though he knew it was true he couldn’t help feeling like he had no one else to blame. Damon had promised to protect him and their child and when it mattered most, he’d locked up. Still, Damon hadn’t been the only one who’d felt hopeless in that moment. Rhys had spent more years than he could remember learning to fight and yet he couldn’t defend himself; he’d become the helpless kind of wolf he’d previously despised.
“How long has he been asleep?”
“A few hours at most,” Knox answered.
“What are we going to do?”
“We are not far from the realm of the White Tail pack. I intend to speak with their leader to persuade him to offer us refuge, at least temporarily,” Knox said.
“What if they refuse?” Rhys asked.
“That is a possibility we cannot afford to ignore but the only way we can know for certain is to try,” Knox said. That gave Rhys little comfort. His entire body ached but none of it was as bad as the wound he’d suffered on his right leg, where the Reaver had snapped its jaws down so forcefully that it tore away the flesh and exposed the muscle beneath. He didn’t dare try to stand.
“And what about the Black Claws?”
“We’ve neither seen nor smelled any sign of them,” Eleo said.
“How far are we from the den?” Rhys asked Knox.
“Less than a league but the journey will be difficult with our injuries. More than that, the White Tails do not take kindly to unexpected visitors. They will not welcome us as friends,” Knox answered.
“I would sooner face their scrutiny than another assault from the Reavers. We need to move,” Rhys said and Eleo chuckled.
“Damon said the same and look where it got him,” he said.
“He wasn’t wrong,” Rhys said. He knew from the stories the kind of wolves that Reavers were. They swore no allegiance to any wolf and cared less for the major packs than they did for their own lives. If there was anything to be gained, even something as meaningless as a scrap of food, the Reavers would come to claim it. It was said that no wolf who encountered Reavers lived to tell the story—they would return, Rhys had no doubt, and they would make small work of he and his fellow wolves in their current condition.
Like the scaled beasts that roam the Sea of Stars, the Reavers seemed able to smell blood and death in the air. If they weren’t already coming for Rhys and his companions, Rhys knew they would arrive soon and he didn’t mean to be lying here like easy prey when they did.
“We are not alone,” Knox whispered, his body turning rigid as he stared off into the distance and sniffed at the air. Rhys followed his gaze, narrowing his eyes to see through the flurry of snow, and nearly ran when he saw a group of wolves approaching them, all of them white. The Reavers had already come and there was no worse position for them to be in. Rhys couldn’t run, couldn’t fight, couldn’t do much of anything.
“Who’s there?” Eleo called to the wolves but he got no answer, not that Rhys expected one. The wolves continued their approach and Rhys used his front paws to drag himself toward Damon, the black wolf he now saw lying in the snow not far from him.
“Don’t move!” a wolf barked through the howl of the wind and Rhys froze. When he looked up, one of the wolves stood just beyond Damon, staring at him, but he didn’t appear threatening. The wolf took Rhys in, including his injuries, his nose crinkling as he sniffed the air around them. “You’re hurt.”
“I am,” Rhys admitted. There wasn’t any sense in denying it, even a blind wolf would’ve been able to see that he was.
“Who are you?” the wolf asked.
“I am Rhys Greyborn of the Silver Fang pack. These are my friends of the Gold Eyes and Black Claws,” Rhys said and the wolf’s eyes darted beyond him to the others.
“Why have you taken company with a Black Claw?” the wolf asked, eyeing Damon’s body on the ground in front of Rhys.
“Give me your word that you won’t hurt me or any of my fellows and I’ll tell you the whole story,” Rhys said. He wasn’t sure if his negotiation tactic would work but it was the only thing he had to try. The wolf scoffed.
“I’ll give you that word when you’ve earned it,” he said.
“Then at least tell me your name so I might give you the respect you deserve,” Rhys said.
“I am Magnus Redrock, captain of the White Tail Guard,” the wolf said and at once all of the tension within Rhys vanished. He didn’t yet know if he could count the White Tails as allies, much less as friends, but the fact that they weren’t Reavers pushed that out of his mind. He had a chance, he might yet walk away from this and live to tell the tale. Thinking only of the child within him, he summoned what courage he had left.
“We’re hurt. The Reavers found us,” Rhys said.
“That much is clear,” Magnus said, his ice-blue eyes sweeping over Rhys and his party and no doubt seeing nothing else. “But why should we help you?”
“I am with child,” Rhys said and though he felt ashamed for playing the victim, it seemed to at least shift something within Magnus as he sniffed again at the air, no doubt to detect the child Rhys claimed to carry. His pupils dilated, shrinking back the ice-blue that matched the frigidness of their environment.
“You’re telling the truth,” he said.
“I am. I’m hurt and I fear for the safety of my child. Please, allow us refuge in your den, if only for one night to see to our wounds and we will be on our way,” Rhys said, knowing that wouldn’t be the case.
“Who are the others?” Magnus asked, gesturing toward Rhys’s friends with his snout. Rhys heard the crunch of snow under paw and Knox appeared in his field of view.
“I am Knox Lunalis, leader of the Gold Eye pack,” Knox said.
“The Gold Eyes have two leaders,” Magnus said and though Rhys couldn’t see Knox’s face he felt his despair.
“We did at one time, yes, that is true,” Knox said. “My brother, Lux, was killed in the battle we suffered these wounds in.” That seemed to catch
Magnus’s attention.
“And the others?” he asked and though his voice remained brusque, Rhys noticed that his temperament seemed to have softened.
“I am Eleo Bloodvalley of the Silver Fangs. I was once the captain of their Rangers before I was exiled along with Rhys and my son, Kaster,” Eleo said.
“And this wolf?” Magnus asked, looking down at Damon.
“He is Damon Mooneye of the Black Claws and my mate,” Rhys answered. Magnus’s head jerked upward and his frozen eyes fixed on Rhys.
“It is his child you carry?” he asked. “A bastard?” Rhys’s temper flared at the words.
“Our child is no bastard. He has two fathers, both of whom are before you now. Damon is no more a Black Claw than I am a Silver Fang,” Rhys said.
“Then you are Packless both with a Packless child. You might be surprised to learn that we hunt Packless wolves here,” Magnus said.
“Do you want the blood of an unborn pup on your hands?” Rhys asked, unable to contain his anger and powered by desperation.
“We mean you no harm, Magnus Redrock,” Knox said, attempting to diffuse the situation. “If you please, I would speak with your leader, Oron Whitepeak. Send for him if you must or we can send an envoy of our own to meet with him if you do not feel safe to bring him here.”
“Oron won’t be disturbed with this,” Magnus said.
“I need not remind you what happened the last time the White Tail pack decided to ignore the words of a Lunalis,” Knox said and though Magnus raised his lips at Knox’s scolding, it seemed to have worked.
“As you say,” he said. “Help them move if necessary,” he called to the other White Tail wolves and they fanned out around Rhys and the others. Magnus himself approached Rhys. “Are you able to walk?” he asked, his eyes on Rhys’s leg.
“No,” Rhys admitted and Magnus shifted into his human form, revealing a bulky man the likes of which Rhys had never seen. He stood a head and a half taller than Rhys and his arms were thick and corded with muscle. He looked as hard as the weather in the area he called his home. Magnus crouched down and gently lifted Rhys off the ground and though pain tore through every fiber of his body, Rhys didn’t bother to try and cover it up. He didn’t have the strength and knew it would do him no good to pretend otherwise.
Perhaps the time for pride is over, he thought as Magnus carried him through the snow. It took all his strength not to pass out from the pain of his wounds but Rhys was determined. He needed to know that he and his child would be okay. They had run out of options, much faster than Rhys would have thought that they would, and now that help had arrived–even if it had been in an unexpected way–Rhys had to accept it.
He watched the sky bob up above him and the falling snowflakes, which had slowed down and grown larger as the storm they found themselves in settled down. The Blood Eye was still high in the sky and it almost seemed to be mocking him. You caused this, Rhys thought with a bitterness. You took Lux from us and nearly took my child too. I don't know what your price is, I don't know when you'll be satisfied, but I hope this is enough.
Rhys’s consciousness swayed with each of Magnus’s steps until at last he gave in to the pull of exhaustion, never knowing what waited for him inside of the White Tail den nor if they would ever arrive intact.
As he fell into sleep yet again, the blinding light from his dream returned, brighter this time and more so than he would have thought possible. Rather than resist, he gave himself to it, allowed it to envelop him and reach into every fiber of his being. Though he couldn’t be sure, it seemed as if the empty buzzing sound that accompanied the light were speaking to him, tiny mutterings that were quieter even than the beating of a butterfly’s wings. Its language was foreign to his ear but it didn’t sound threatening.
When all the tension in his body had left him, Rhys’s vision burst into dramatic color and he found himself confronted by wolves he faintly recognized, despite their fuzzy and blurred appearance. They floated before him illuminated by an undulating, shifting light. I’m in Aurora Falls, he thought warmly. I’m safe here, as safe as I can be.
“Rhys,” spoke one of the wolves, who came into clarity as he spoke. It was his father, Juno. He smiled when their eyes met and Rhys knew for certain now that he’d fallen back into dreams and perhaps for good this time.
“Father,” Rhys answered. “Am I joining you?”
“Only if you wish to,” Juno answered.
“Moonvalley still has need of you, Rhys Greyborn,” another of the wolves said, who appeared to him as Lux Lunalis. The sight of him went through Rhys like a gust of icy wind, bringing chills along with it.
“What need? I’m only one wolf, what can I do?” Rhys asked.
“What you were born to do: lead,” Juno said.
“This world would see itself torn apart if we allow it,” the third wolf said, his image clear now, though Rhys didn’t recognize him. “You are the blood of my blood. I trust you will prove it.”
“Oberon?” Rhys asked. The wolf nodded and Rhys felt himself swell with encouragement.
“How am I to lead when I can’t care for even myself? Who would follow a leader who depends on others for his survival?” Rhys asked. “Who would follow an Omega?”
“Strength is more than merely physical. Perhaps Moonvalley has need of a new kind of strength,” Oberon said.
“Being an Omega means nothing,” Juno said. “I’ve always known you were destined for greatness, from the second you were born. Now is the time to create that greatness.”
“When silver and black mate and an alliance create, no man nor wolf alive will fail to see it thrive,” Lux said, his image beginning to fade. “When land and sea once more agree, an age golden shall quell the world’s rage.”
“Dark days are coming, my son,” Juno said, his voice echoing and mixing with Lux’s.
“I don’t know what that means,” Rhys said desperately. “Please, tell me what to do,” he begged but the wolves were already gone and once more he found himself with no company save for the blinding light.
Damon
The White Tail den was unlike anything that Damon had ever seen. Its entrance was made of frigid spires that seemed to reach out like fingers from the ground, forming a set of icy fangs around its mouth—a mouth that spoke its hostility toward outsiders without uttering a word. The sight made him wonder if he might be having some sort of fevered dream because he didn’t think it was possible for such a thing to exist. The den itself had been carved out from the ice, a refuge from the cold built into the cold itself, and though they only stood at the entrance Damon could see a series of tunnels that wound down into the interior of the mountain.
"Stay here," Magnus commanded. Damon didn't dare defy him. He had carried Rhys the entire duration of their journey from where the wolves had found them nearly a league away. He was at least three times the size of Damon and he looked like he could easily tear any wolf in half if the notion took him. The truth of the matter was that Damon owed him a great deal of thanks for agreeing to bring them here in the first place, though Knox had strong armed him.
So instead of arguing, and despite his own weariness from a slumber that was less than restful, Damon carefully took Rhys from Magnus's arms and held him close. Rhys didn't stir. He’d fallen back into a state of unresponsiveness that worried Damon more than he cared to admit. Stay strong, he thought, hoping the words of encouragement and his hands against Rhys’s body might empower him and speed his healing.
"As you say," Knox said. Eleo and Kaster paused behind him. Magnus and his other group of all-white wolves walked through the massive entrance to their den unobstructed. The White Tails who stood guard there merely nodded in acknowledgment at Magnus and his group as they passed while watching Damon with suspicion. Though their faces were difficult to distinguish from the snow around them, Damon was almost certain they weren't eager to welcome him and his group into their home.
Truthfully, he couldn't say that he blamed them.
His pack and the White Tails had a history that neither of them could feel prideful about. The Black Claws had dragged the White Tails into a war that they never wanted to be a part of and then turned their backs on them at the last second. Damon also didn't doubt that at this point they had heard the story that he had killed his own father. They also surely knew that Rhys was pregnant with his child, a fact that would no doubt make things much more difficult for them all.
"Are you well?" Knox asked him.
"Honestly, no. I'm nervous, so nervous that I can barely stand it," Damon answered, sighing as the tension that he'd been carrying left his body with his words.
"We all are," Knox said. "I do not know Oron half as well as I would like to but I know that the White Tail pack has never been one to welcome strangers, much less those who pose the kind of threat that we do."
"Then what makes you think he will talk with us?" Damon asked.
"Nothing. I am operating solely on blind faith," Knox said, which gave Damon no comfort. Since Lux had been killed in the skirmish with the Reavers, Knox had changed. Where he was gentle and understanding before now he was filled with a desperate need to prove himself, or at least that's how it seemed to Damon. It was almost like a part of Knox had died along with his brother, which Damon could understand, but now more than ever he and the rest of their party needed Knox's help. They needed his clear, level head and his ability to anticipate the moves of other wolves and packs.
"When has blind faith ever served us well?" Damon asked.
"Rarely, but now it is all we have," Knox said. Damon stared into his eyes, which twinkled in a way that suggested that he was plotting something. Damon had learned that the Lunalis wolf had a very capable way of surprising him and every other wolf around him, and though he was afraid for his life and the lives of his fellow wolves, he still trusted Knox's judgment.
So, with Rhys in his arms, he sank to his knees in the snow, which left him feeling cold inside and out. The White Tail den, from the outside, looked as uninviting as the wolves who inhabited it. Its angles were sharp and unpredictable, like the ice from which it had been built. Magnus and his group of wolves had long since disappeared inside, but the wolves guarding the entrance had never stopped staring at Damon and the others. They were purely white, just like every other wolf in this pack, which made Damon feel more out of place than anything else. That fact alone made him feel unwelcome.