Chapter Text
The first time Chan shifted, he didn’t cry.
He bled. He bit down on his own wrist to keep from screaming. And when the pain finally stopped—when the world settled and he stood on two trembling legs instead of four—his father didn’t smile. He only nodded once, sharp and final.
“As expected,” the Alpha had said. “You took too long.”
Chan was five.
There were no songs sung for him. No soft fur pressed to his side in celebration. No whispered prayers to the moon. Just the cold thud of footsteps as his father walked away, leaving him there in the dirt, naked and panting, the scent of his own blood thick in his nose.
From that day on, Chan understood: being born the Alpha’s heir was not a gift. It was a burden sharpened into a blade, and that blade would be turned inward if he ever faltered.
His days were filled with drills—tracking, scent work, combat forms. Lessons etched into muscle and bone. He learned to run silently through snow. To fight with his teeth and his hands. To shift in and out with precision.
But more than anything, he was taught how to rule.
“A strong pack needs a stronger alpha,” his father would say, voice like cracked ice. “And an alpha is nothing without a legacy.”
Chan was six when he first heard the word heir spoken like a command. Seven when he was told that omegas were not to be loved—they were to be chosen. Eight when he saw an older alpha exiled for bonding with another male, stripped of his title, his claws snapped in front of the entire council.
“Disgusting,” his father muttered beside him, not even bothering to whisper. “Two cocks. No children. No purpose.”
Chan didn’t look. He kept his gaze low, fists clenched at his sides.
He didn’t understand what he felt. He only knew that it had to be wrong.
By the time he turned ten, Chan could recite the courtship laws from memory. Alphas gave furs. Alphas hunted meat. Alphas protected. They offered, they pursued, they conquered. And omegas received.
He was told, over and over, that his seed was sacred. That a good father bred strong pups. That his knot was his legacy, and to waste it was to spit in the face of the moon god.
Sometimes he’d hear whispers of the old tales—of alpha pairs who lived in exile under the stars, guided only by each other’s scent. Of the moon god’s dual form, shifting between man and woman, neither and both. Of bonds not meant for breeding, but for something deeper.
He never asked about them. His father didn’t tell stories.
Stories were for the weak.
At thirteen, Chan killed his first buck alone. Dragged it back through the snow with shaking limbs. His father grunted in approval and handed him a blade.
“Now gut it. Show me you’re worth the name.”
Chan obeyed. He didn’t flinch when the blood sprayed his chest.
“Good,” the Alpha said. “You’ll make a strong mate one day. Just make sure it’s an omega between your legs. Anything else, and I’ll gut you.”
Chan nodded.
He always nodded.
There were other sons, of course—other alphas being raised to serve, to protect. But none of them mattered, not the way he was told this one would.
Hyunjin.
Son of the Second. Born just moons apart from Chan. Destined, they said, to fight beside him one day. To lead with him. To stand at his right hand when the time came.
“They’ll be legends,” Chan’s father once said, skinning a fox with quick, practiced flicks of his blade. “Our bloodlines will blaze together. The Alpha and his Second—stronger than any the pack’s seen.”
Hyunjin’s father had laughed, sharp and proud. “Two swords, one vision. The future’s in their teeth already.”
Chan sat beside them in silence, hands stiff with drying blood, unsure if he was meant to feel honored or hunted.
He hadn’t met Hyunjin yet.
Only heard the stories—how the Second’s son was fast, reckless, sharp-toothed and beautiful. How he’d shifted earlier than any of the others. How he didn’t flinch when he bit.
“You’ll balance each other,” his mother said once, quietly, while rubbing salve into the cuts on his knuckles. “He’s wild. You’re steady. That’s how it’s meant to be.”
Chan didn’t answer. He was too tired to speak. Too tired of all the meant to be.
The future was always being spoken for—plotted and planned in cold, precise words while he stood still, neck bared, breath held.
No one asked what he wanted.
Not that he would’ve known how to answer.
✶
Chan stood on the ridge where the snow melted last. Below, the dens stretched in soft curves of earth and timber, smoke trailing skyward from the central fire pit. The wind carried the scent of cedar and roasted meat, old stone and damp fur.
His father no longer ran with the hunting parties. The weight of years had crept into his gait, slow and biting. Where his wolf had once been storm-dark, now patches of silver and white streaked his coat, like snow that refused to melt.
He still spoke like thunder.
Still barked orders from the Alpha’s perch, his voice never cracking even as his limbs did.
His mother had faded quieter. Her white wolf—once sleek and sharp, deadly even—now padded gently between the kindergartners’ dens, weaving herbs and humming old lullabies under her breath. Her muzzle had gone nearly white. Her paws ached too much for long walks. She spent her days preserving meat, tending fires, folding furs into tight, perfect bundles.
Chan caught her watching him sometimes. Not like his father watched—with expectation, with pride that always came sharp-edged—but with something else.
Something like worry.
He was closer now than ever before. The council had already begun to whisper of his naming. His father was preparing the rites. Soon, his place at the head of the pack would no longer be a question of when.
Only how long he could bear it.
It was just before dusk when the two alphas came to him.
They stood tall, side by side, a little too close for tradition. Both strong. Both young. And both scented with a soft, interwoven musk that Chan didn’t think much of.
He recognized them—hunters, skilled and trusted. Veterans of the last harsh winter, the kind whose names the pups already knew by heart.
“We come with a request,” the first one said, hands folded behind his back. “The Moon has spoken. She’s called us south. We believe we are meant to found a new pack.”
Chan stilled. His gaze flicked between them.
A founding. That wasn’t rare—but it wasn’t taken lightly either. To leave one’s birth pack was to cut a deep thread. The journey was long. Dangerous. Lonely.
But they didn’t look afraid. Only resolute. Bright-eyed.
Chan gave a slow, approving nod.
“The Moon has chosen well,” he said. “You’ll have the proper rites in two moons’ time. Your names will be spoken in fire and bone. May the Moon provide and protect you both.”
They exhaled like they’d been holding something in too long. Then they bowed, not just out of duty—but with the kind of reverence reserved for something real.
As they walked away, Chan watched their backs disappear between the trees, side by side, shoulders brushing.
He felt… proud.
It wasn’t every day the Moon called two alphas to walk a new path together.
That bond must’ve been strong.
Sacred, even.
He hoped one day, when the time came, the Moon would speak just as clearly to him.
✶
The wind was already shifting.
It carried the scent of frost long before the leaves began to fall—dry and sharp, with that faint bite that curled under your gums like cold metal. The elder healer had warned them a week ago, her cloudy eyes flickering in the firelight as she spoke of the Wind God’s voice. “Prepare your dens. The chill will come earlier this year.”
Chan had taken her words to heart.
Now, he ran with four others, coats glinting under the trees like dappled stone. They moved in rhythm—low to the ground, paws barely brushing the undergrowth. Leather bundles at the camp’s edge already bulged with fresh meat, but Chan wasn’t ready to turn back.
Not yet.
He moved ahead of the others, chasing the scent of something small—a rabbit, maybe two. Enough for the fire pit and then some. The forest hummed with the quiet of dusk, branches creaking, snow melting slow in the shadows.
Then—
Crack.
A twig, clean and sharp.
Chan froze. Ears swiveling. Muscles coiled.
He let out a low, warning huff—more air than sound, deep in the chest, a wolf’s version of Careful. Something’s near.
Leaves rustled. He stepped forward, claws twitching in the earth.
And then—
“Oh, relax,” a voice sang, far too amused for the setting.
Hyunjin.
He stood upright between the trees, fully shifted, brushing back a curtain of dark hair like he wasn’t in the middle of stepping directly into a hunting zone. Barefoot, slightly out of breath, with one shoulder propped against a pine.
“Heyy~ I know I was supposed to be on patrol,” he drawled, tone unapologetic, “but the elder healer needs your input. Something about the ferals getting bolder?”
Chan exhaled sharply through his nose, irritation curling under his ribs. He flicked his ears once—Shift.
Hyunjin rolled his eyes but complied, skin splitting smooth into fur, sleek and russet-dark. His wolf was all lean muscle and long limbs, tail flicking like he’d been itching to run.
Chan turned and padded toward the others, releasing a short woof to signal regrouping.
Behind him, Hyunjin followed. Quiet this time. Quieter than usual.
By the time they gathered the hunters and began the trek home, dusk had settled thick across the trees, the cold finally beginning to nip at their heels.
✶
They crossed the river before nightfall.
It wasn’t deep—barely ankle-high in the dry season—but the cold snap had turned its surface brittle with thin lace-ice. Chan was first to step through, careful not to crack too loudly. Behind him, Hyunjin’s wolf snorted when the water touched his paws. Always a bit dramatic.
They emerged into camp damp and weary, leather bundles heavy with their haul. Smoke already rose from the longhouse, its scent laced with pine sap and rendered fat. It would be warm in there, filled with chatter and pups curled at their mothers’ feet. Chan didn’t move toward it just yet.
He shifted first, skin stretching back over bone, fur melting to skin. The cold kissed his spine. He inhaled deep.
Hyunjin followed with a shake, hair sticking up in wild tufts, arms raised to the sky in an exaggerated groan. “Ugh, I missed walking on two legs. My paws were frozen.”
One of the younger hunters snorted. “Maybe if you didn’t flop around in the water like a pup—”
“I was graceful, thank you,” Hyunjin sniffed, flicking his wet hair back. “You just don’t appreciate finesse.”
Chan rolled his eyes and handed off a bundle. “Take that to the drying shed.”
Hyunjin saluted—mocking, but obedient—and disappeared into the shadows with the others.
Only then did Chan allow himself a pause.
The camp spread out around him, built with wide hands and old memories. Dens dug into the hillsides, weaving tunnels between families. Smoke holes blinked like stars across the ground. In the distance, the elder healer’s fire burned bright beside her hut, signaling she was waiting.
But Chan didn’t go to her yet.
Instead, he found his mother—exactly where she always was in late dusk, sitting near the pup den with a blanket half-finished in her lap. Her fingers moved slowly now, clumsy around the bone needle, but her expression was peaceful. A few pups curled beside her, already dozing.
“Back from the woods?” she asked without looking up.
He nodded. “Hunt went well.”
“Did Hyunjin stop yapping long enough to help?”
Chan let out a quiet breath. “Eventually.”
She chuckled, her voice thin like dry reeds. “He’s his father’s son. Loud, fast, and soft where he shouldn’t be.”
That made something inside him twitch.
“He’s strong,” Chan said before he could stop himself.
Her hands stilled. Then resumed. “No one said he wasn’t. Just don’t let him get under your skin, son. Your father expects discipline. A future leader doesn’t get distracted.”
Chan said nothing.
She looked up at him with that tired softness mothers had. “He’s grown into a handsome one, hasn’t he?”
He blinked.
“I—I hadn’t noticed.”
She smiled knowingly. “Of course not.”
Chan shifted his weight, uncomfortable. The firelight cast long shadows across her face, tracing every new line. She used to be sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued, always the first to raise her voice in a debate. Now, even her words had softened—except when they hadn’t.
“You’re going to see the elder healer soon?” she asked, threading another length of sinew through the fur.
“Yes.”
“She’s worried. About the ferals.”
Chan gave a short nod. “Hyunjin said they’ve been spotted closer to the border.”
His mother’s hands paused again, this time not from weariness. Her eyes lifted slowly to his.
“They’re not a patrol problem anymore, Chan.”
He met her gaze, searching.
“A feral, on its own, can be led away. Cornered. You throw a bone, and it forgets you were even there.” Her voice grew quieter. “But the moment they start moving as a group—”
He knew. He’d read it in the older records, heard it whispered in training.
“They stop acting like wolves,” she finished for him. “And start acting like ghosts.”
He swallowed.
“They don’t shift anymore,” she added. “Haven’t in seasons. Maybe forgot how. Maybe just… gave up on being anything but teeth.”
She folded the pelt in her lap carefully, the movement like a ritual.
“A wolf alone for too long loses its mind,” she said, almost to herself. “But a feral pack? That’s a sickness. One you can’t reason with.”
Chan didn’t speak. His fingers curled into fists at his sides.
“You’ll be Alpha soon.” Her voice grew firm. “It’s not just your body you’ll need sharpened. It’s your judgment.”
He nodded. Slowly.
“I’ll go see the healer.”
“Good.” She exhaled. “And take Hyunjin with you. The Moon didn’t make him your Second just so he could make you miserable.”
He huffed softly, more amused than annoyed this time, and leaned down to kiss her temple.
“I’ll come by later with smoked hare.”
“Only if it’s not too salty.”
“It’s always too salty,” he said.
She smiled.
✶
Chan found Hyunjin outside the drying shed, rolling up his sleeves and laughing too loudly at something one of the younger hunters had said. His hair was damp and curling at the ends, and a smear of blood marked the inside of his wrist—elk, probably. He looked utterly unbothered, as always.
Chan gave a short whistle.
Hyunjin’s ears perked, then he turned, catching Chan’s eye.
“Elder healer wants us,” Chan said simply.
“Us?” Hyunjin brushed his hands off on his trousers. “I thought you were her favorite.”
“She said you talk too much and track like a distracted squirrel,” Chan replied dryly. “But she still wants your voice on this.”
Hyunjin grinned. “She’s never liked how pretty I am.”
Chan didn’t respond to that, but he didn’t look away either.
They made their way across the camp, the sky bleeding into night behind them. The elder’s hut was the oldest in the grounds—made from cured birch bark, animal hide, and the bones of creatures long since hunted out of existence. The smoke hole above it pulsed gently with orange light, and the scent of herbs hung thick in the air, clinging to their tongues before they even stepped inside.
The fire was already dancing when they entered.
It sat in a low pit in the center, flames licking at the bundled cedar and oil-soaked twigs. The elder healer sat behind it, draped in woven cloths, a dark braid trailing down one shoulder. Her face was lined with hundreds of winters and twice as many secrets, but her eyes were clear and sharp as ever.
“Ah,” she said without lifting her head. “The moon-bright one and the chatterwolf.”
Hyunjin bowed deeply, the tips of his hair brushing the floor. “Your kindness never fails.”
“You tracked too close to the river, pup,” she said, without missing a beat. “The ferns told on you.”
Chan sat cross-legged across from her, Hyunjin flopping down beside him with the same ease he did everything. The heat of the fire warmed Chan’s knees, then spread to his chest.
“You felt them?” Chan asked.
The healer nodded, slowly.
“I woke with blood in my throat three nights in a row. No wounds. No sickness. Just the taste.” She opened her palm, revealing a small bundle of singed wolf fur. “This was on my threshold this morning. Burnt before it ever touched flame.”
Hyunjin’s humor faded.
“They’re closer,” she continued. “But not just in body. In hunger.”
Chan tilted his head. “Meaning?”
“They’re not prowling like loners anymore. They move like a pack now. Not one tied to the moon, not one that prays or sings or spares the weak. They’ve taken the shape of wolves, but not the soul.”
Hyunjin shifted beside him, tense now.
The elder leaned forward, and the firelight caught in her eyes. “You’ve heard stories, I know. Wolves that lose themselves if they’re alone too long. But this? This isn’t forgetting. This is refusing.”
She tossed the fur into the fire. It curled, sizzled, and vanished into ash.
“Something’s feeding them,” she whispered. “And it’s not just hunger.”
Chan felt a chill ripple down his spine. “What should we do?”
Her gaze settled on him—heavy and knowing.
“You’ll lead a scouting party. Two nights from now. Take your Second. Take the older boys. Go to the southern ridge. See if the trees still whisper the same stories.”
Chan nodded.
“And if we see one?”
“Then hope it’s alone.”
✶
The air outside the healer’s hut was colder now, the moon barely a sliver above the trees. The fire behind them still glowed, a last pulse of warmth as they stepped into the dark.
Hyunjin stretched, arms overhead until his back cracked. “Well. That wasn’t ominous at all.”
Chan exhaled through his nose. “She’s rarely wrong.”
“She’s also rarely fun.” Hyunjin bumped his shoulder against Chan’s. “C’mon. You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing.”
“The brooding future Alpha thing. Like if you furrow your brow hard enough you’ll scare the ferals off by sheer will.”
Chan gave him a look. “I am future Alpha.”
“Yeah, but I’m your Second,” Hyunjin said with a grin. “So it’s my job to make sure you don’t turn into your father.”
That made Chan actually pause. The corner of his mouth twitched.
Before he could retort, Hyunjin dropped to all fours mid-step, shifting with practiced ease. A burst of silver and black fur overtook him, tail wagging once before he took off into the underbrush.
Chan blinked. “You’re impossible.”
The only answer he got was a sharp bark and the crunch of leaves.
With a sigh and a shimmer of instinct, Chan followed—his own shift smoother now than it had been seasons ago, the stretch of limbs into paws like stepping into another skin he knew better than his own. The world opened around him in new colors and sharper sounds. He chased the scent of Hyunjin, playful and sharp like pine sap and snow.
They darted between trees, paws thudding quietly over moss and root. Hyunjin doubled back once just to slam into Chan’s side, sending them both tumbling into the underbrush. Chan snarled, more bark than bite, and lunged, teeth snapping at Hyunjin’s scruff.
Hyunjin yipped and spun, tail slapping Chan’s snout before taking off again in a wild dash through the trees.
Chan didn’t let him get far. He pounced, heavier and broader, catching Hyunjin mid-step and knocking him down. They rolled together, leaves flying, claws scraping shallow at the earth. A nip at Chan’s jaw. A nose to Hyunjin’s ribs. One of them huffed, then barked a laugh that echoed through the woods.
Hyunjin, always faster, always lighter on his paws, tried to twist out from under him—but Chan bit at his side, just enough to make him yelp.
Behave, that nip said.
Make me, Hyunjin’s answering growl replied.
They crashed through the clearing, Hyunjin trying to outmaneuver, Chan matching him move for move. At one point, Hyunjin lunged—not to attack, but to bump his muzzle to the underside of Chan’s throat. Bold. Soft. Familiar.
Chan froze. Just a beat too long.
Hyunjin backed off with a teasing flick of his tail. Too easy.
Chan chased him down in retaliation, teeth nipping at his heel just to make him yelp again.
For a while, they weren’t anything. Not future Alpha and Second, not sons of powerful men, not bound by gods or ghosts. Just two wolves beneath the trees, chasing laughter on four legs.
Eventually, they slowed, breath steaming in the cold air.
Hyunjin flopped onto his side in the clearing, panting. Chan settled beside him, shoulder to shoulder, chests rising in tandem. Their sides pressed close, fur warming fur, the wind whispering through the trees above.
A single owl called overhead. The world held its breath.
Hyunjin’s wolf nosed gently at Chan’s ear. Not a tease. Not a challenge. Just… soft.
Chan huffed, gently pressing back, then dragged his tongue over Hyunjin’s jaw in a rare moment of affection.
The moment hung there, unspoken.
Then Hyunjin stood with a shake of his coat and let out a small bark that sounded suspiciously like race you back, and bolted.
Chan growled, low and playful, and ran after him again—teeth flashing, paws pounding, heart thudding with something that had nothing to do with the hunt.
✶
5 moon’s time
Chan ducked into the elder healer’s hut, brushing the curtain of woven reeds aside with a practiced hand. He didn’t knock—no one knocked in this part of the pack. Not when the walls were made of bark and breath, stitched together by time.
The air inside clung to his skin, thick with dried sage and fever root. Smoke curled from the central firepit, small and contained, sending out the faintest hiss where sap crackled in the bark. Bones hung from the ceiling in quiet rows—carved markers of past seasons, each one holding the memory of a pup’s first tooth or an elder’s last breath.
Chan was halfway into the hut before he realized it wasn’t the Elder who greeted him.
Minho sat by the fire, sleeves rolled above his elbows, one knee drawn to his chest. He was grinding something in a black stone mortar, the movement slow and precise, his face half-hidden by a curtain of smoke and hair. The room was quiet enough to hear the stone scrape against itself.
The omega didn’t look up. “She’s resting.”
Chan shifted his stance. “I—I came to see her.”
Minho’s hand paused, then resumed. “Like I said. Resting. You’ll have to talk to me instead.”
Chan blinked. He had spoken to Minho before—brief words passed over trays of stew, or a nod during communal meals—but this was the first time he had ever really looked at him. Up close, the omega’s face was sharper than he remembered. Pale lashes, specks of something green staining his fingertips.
He cleared his throat. “Is she alright?”
“She walked to the north farm and back this morning. In this cold? That’s more than enough to make her knees scream.”
Chan stepped closer to the fire, unsure of where to stand. “She should’ve asked someone to go with her.”
Minho gave a soft sound, something between a laugh and a snort. “You try telling her that.”
The fire crackled between them, casting Minho’s face in gold and red.
Chan folded his arms across his chest. “You’re her apprentice, right?”
“I’d hope so.” Minho glanced up for the first time, his voice wry. “Would be awkward if I was just squatting in her hut.”
Chan startled at the dry humor, unsure how to respond. He’d expected silence, maybe a nod. He hadn’t expected to be teased.
“I meant—sorry, that was dumb. Of course you’re her apprentice.”
Minho raised an eyebrow. “You don’t talk much.”
“I talk plenty.”
“Not to me.”
That stopped him. Chan searched for a response, something to explain himself, but all he could find were stammered fragments. He ended up offering, “I didn’t think I had to.”
Minho tilted his head slightly, watching him. “You will, if you become Alpha.”
Chan stiffened. “I know.”
The silence stretched again. Minho didn’t fill it. He just went back to grinding, unbothered.
Chan felt a flicker of shame twist in his gut. He hated how it sounded when someone else said it—if he became Alpha. As if it wasn’t already written in stone. As if there were still things he hadn’t earned.
“I didn’t mean to avoid you,” he said, softer now. “I’m just… not great with people.”
Minho gave a noncommittal shrug. “You’re better than your father.”
That landed like a stone.
Chan didn’t flinch, but something in him pulled taut.
Minho seemed to notice, but didn’t apologize. Instead, he spoke again, quieter. “He doesn’t like omegas much. Especially ones who talk back.”
Chan didn’t deny it. Couldn’t. Everyone in the pack knew the way his father’s jaw clenched when an omega did more than smile and serve. It had always been one of those rules no one wrote down.
“He used to tell me that alphas should keep their heads high, and their hands clean.” Chan looked at the fire. “That talking too much made people forget you were born to lead.”
Minho made a sound that might’ve been a laugh. “And yet here you are. Talking.”
Chan let the corner of his mouth tilt upward. “Maybe I forgot.”
Minho’s hands stilled. The silence between them softened, not awkward now, just… still.
“I’ve seen you,” Minho said. “During the solstice dinners. You always look like you’re about to leave.”
“I usually am.”
“Why?”
“Because my father doesn’t like when I look happy.”
Minho turned to face him fully now, the mortar set aside.
“You’re not your father.”
“I know.”
“But you’re scared of being him.”
The words sliced through the air, clean and honest.
Chan felt like the floor shifted under him, like his bones had to remember how to hold his weight again.
“I don’t know if I know how not to be.”
Minho didn’t smile, but there was something gentler in his eyes now. Not pity. Just understanding.
“Then you learn,” he said. “And if you mess up, you try again.”
The fire popped between them. Minho reached for a fresh strip of bark, started sorting through a pouch of dried herbs.
“I’ll let her know you stopped by,” he said, voice returning to its usual calm. “But she’s not taking visitors today. Not even handsome ones.”
Chan flushed. “I—uh—”
Minho looked at him with deliberate blankness. “I meant me.”
“…Right.”
But the heat in Chan’s face didn’t go away.
He left the hut with the smell of rosemary clinging to his clothes, his chest warm in a way he didn’t quite have words for.
✶
Felix was half-buried in fur bundles when Hyunjin found him, curled into a nest of rabbit and deer hides like he’d been left there to dry in the sun. Only the crown of his golden head showed at first, blending with the pale pelts he’d been sorting. As Hyunjin approached, the movement must’ve disturbed him, because one eye cracked open and he blinked sleepily, like a pup roused too soon from a nap.
“You’re not even pretending to work anymore,” Hyunjin said, crossing his arms and raising a brow.
Felix stretched slowly, arms over his head, the furs slipping down to reveal more of his slight frame. “Excuse you,” he said, voice soft but cheeky. “I am working. I’m testing the quality of these bundles. If they aren’t nap-approved, they’re not pup-approved.”
“Right,” Hyunjin muttered, though a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Because you’re such a harsh critic when it comes to softness.”
“Exactly. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.” Felix nestled deeper into the furs, looking far too content for someone supposedly on duty. “These are going to the nursery dens. Can’t have the little ones shivering once the wind starts turning sharp. The elder healer says it’ll hit earlier this year.”
Hyunjin crouched beside him, reaching out to test the edge of one of the bundles. “This one’s stitched clean. And the lining’s thick.”
“Deer hide over hare,” Felix said with a little nod. “It’s warm without being heavy. Minho showed me the knotwork so it doesn’t unravel when they kick.”
Hyunjin glanced over the pile—there had to be at least thirty bundles ready to go, and more scattered nearby in various states of completion. “You did all these?”
Felix shrugged, eyes twinkling. “Well, not all at once. But most. And I’ve been fixing up some older ones, too. The lining tends to fray when the pups start biting them.”
Hyunjin huffed a quiet laugh and shook his head. “You pretend you’re just lounging around, but you’re always doing something.”
Felix gave a delicate sniff. “Don’t go ruining my image. I’m supposed to be the lazy, pampered omega who flits around camp smelling like wildflowers.”
“…You kind of do.”
“I do,” Felix agreed easily. He reached over to smooth a small tuft of fur sticking up from one of the bundles. “The elder omegas used to say we come from flower beds, you know. That we just bloomed one morning in spring, eyes still closed, paws still soft. I used to pretend it was true.”
Hyunjin blinked, taken off guard. “You… really believed that?”
Felix tilted his head, smile soft. “Sometimes. I wanted to. Doesn’t it sound nice?”
“It does,” Hyunjin admitted. “It sounds… peaceful.”
Felix nodded, his fingers still playing with the fur. “I liked the idea of being wanted like that. Not made, just… found. Chosen by the wind and the blossoms.”
For a moment, there was only the gentle rustle of the pelts and the low chirping of birds somewhere nearby.
“You’re the only one who thinks about the pups before the cold really sets in,” Hyunjin said finally. “Everyone else waits for a warning. You just start working.”
Felix gave him a small shrug, but his smile was a little quieter now. “It’s easier to get things done when no one expects much from you. Let them think I’m just here to nap and look pretty. They don’t ask questions that way.”
Hyunjin watched him closely. “Is that why you always play it down?”
Felix glanced up, meeting his gaze for the briefest second before looking away again. “Isn’t it easier for everyone?”
The silence settled again, but this time, it didn’t feel quite so light.
“You’re more clever than all of us put together,” Hyunjin said, his voice low.
“Don’t tell Minho that,” Felix murmured with a grin. “He likes thinking he’s the clever one.”
“I think he knows already.”
Felix snorted softly, but there was a flicker of affection in his expression that gave him away. “Yeah. Probably.”
He leaned back again, letting the sun catch on the curve of his cheekbones and the soft spill of his hair across the pelts. Hyunjin watched him a moment longer, unsure what else to say, unsure how to say it—but somehow, being near Felix like this made the quiet feel less empty. More like something shared.
…
“Felix,” came a voice low and warm behind them.
Felix straightened almost instinctively, but his eyes softened the moment he turned. “Minho.”
Hyunjin stood as well, brushing some stray fur off his legs as the elder healer’s apprentice approached. Minho didn’t look at him first—his gaze was fixed on Felix, assessing, quiet. Only once he was close enough to touch did he let out a small breath.
“You’ve been out here too long. You’ll start smelling like wet deer.”
Felix grinned, unbothered. “That’s the idea. I’m trying to camouflage.”
Minho reached down and gently tugged a bit of moss from Felix’s hair. “I think you’d stand out even if you rolled in mud.”
Felix blinked up at him, the grin shrinking into something softer. “You found me fast.”
“You weren’t exactly hiding.” Minho’s voice lowered, just a little. “I always know where to find you.”
Hyunjin, suddenly aware he was standing in the middle of something private, cleared his throat. “I’ll, uh—take these to the nursery. You two… keep doing whatever this is.”
“Being domestic,” Felix supplied with a cheeky smile, though his eyes were still mostly on Minho.
“Right. That.” Hyunjin lifted a few bundles and backed off, pretending not to notice the way Minho’s hand had drifted close to Felix’s hip, fingers just barely brushing the fur beside him.
Once he was gone, Minho crouched down, his knees brushing the edge of the pile. “You’ve done too much today. You should rest.”
Felix rolled his eyes, but didn’t argue. “It’s easier to sleep when my hands are busy first.”
Minho reached over and took one of his wrists gently, thumb stroking just beneath the skin. “You shouldn’t have to work yourself to sleep.”
“Maybe not,” Felix murmured, eyes lowering. “But I like knowing they’ll be warm. The pups.”
Minho was quiet for a long moment, then leaned in just slightly. “You’re too good for this place.”
Felix smiled, but it was faint, like it wasn’t meant to last. “I know.”
Minho looked down at their joined hands, the silence between them thicker now. When he spoke again, it was almost a whisper. “One more moon. Maybe two. Then we go.”
Felix swallowed, voice barely audible. “Together?”
Minho’s grip tightened. “Always.”
They sat like that for a while—no more words, just warmth, the gentle press of their foreheads together, and the faint scent of fur and flowers between them.
The sun filtered through the trees, soft and golden, and if anyone passed by, they’d have only seen two wolves resting close. Just an apprentice and an omega, heads bowed like they were praying.
But Felix knew. He knew.
And it made the waiting easier.
✶
The low thuds of cleavers against thick-cut wood echoed through the warm clearing, rhythmic and oddly comforting. The scent of dried herbs, smoked meat, and blood hung in the air, familiar and grounding. It meant safety. It meant full bellies and strong winters.
Chan padded closer, still half-distracted from his earlier meeting with the elder healer. His coat shimmered as he shifted mid-step, fur giving way to skin with practiced ease. A simple wrap was tied around his hips, practical and easy. He ran a hand through his dark curls, catching sight of the two Alphas hunched over the meat prep station.
Changbin grunted as he tore through the thick muscle of a haunch, fingers stained red up to the knuckles. “Keep your fingers back, Han. I swear if you lose one, I’m not stitching it back.”
“Please,” Han scoffed, elbow-deep in his own section of deer. “My hands are insured by the Moon Goddess herself. Tools of the trade.”
Chan raised a brow. “What trade, exactly?”
Han looked up, flashing a sharp grin. “Charm, intimidation, and making omegas swoon.”
Changbin snorted, but his smile lingered as he wiped his hands off on a cloth. “More like you talk so much they pass out from secondhand embarrassment.”
“Blasphemy,” Han gasped, pressing a hand to his chest.
Chan chuckled under his breath, watching them work for a moment longer. There was something reassuring about the way they moved—how in-sync they were, how they bickered like brothers but still handed each other tools without asking. Two strong Alphas, arms dusted with salt and sweat and dried blood, their presence radiating warmth and competence.
He wasn’t the only one who noticed. A pair of young omegas had been lingering on the other side of the prep station for a while now, pretending to sort baskets. One of them kept sneaking glances at Changbin’s arms, while the other outright dropped a cloth when Han flexed, unprompted.
“Do you two ever stop showing off?” Chan asked, half-amused, half-scolding.
Han turned toward the oglers and winked. “Not when we’ve got an audience.”
Changbin just grinned and went back to carving, muscles rippling under the pressure of the blade.
Chan shook his head, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Dinner’s in a few hours. You’re still on serving duty after prep.”
“I live to serve,” Han replied, slicing clean through a stubborn bit of sinew. “And to be served, ideally. In all the ways.”
“You’re going to scare the pups,” Changbin muttered.
Chan left them with a wave, steps slower now as he made his way through the rest of the busy camp. Fires were being fed, furs shaken out, baskets returned to their places, and children were already giggling around the old weaving circle. It felt right, in that moment. Like the world was still balanced.
But in the back of his mind… he knew something was shifting. Something quiet. Just out of reach.
…
✶
It had been nearly a full moon cycle since Felix and Minho vanished.
They’d gone to collect roots—just outside the safe zone, barely a tail’s length from the river bend where pups often played during warmer moons. Minho had told the weaving elder he’d be back before dusk. Felix had kissed a fussing toddler goodbye and promised to bring back the softest moss for their bedding.
They didn’t come back.
The first night, no one panicked. Minho was careful. Felix was fast. They’d return.
The second day, Chan sent scouts.
By the third, howls echoed across the valley, calling, crying, praying.
By the end of the week, hope soured into dread. Chan hadn’t slept. Hyunjin barely spoke. Not to each other. Not to anyone. Every time they crossed paths, it was brief—tense and wordless. A nod. A glance. A shared ache neither had words for.
And now, a month later, Chan stood on the edge of the clearing, surrounded by armored Alphas. His voice carried like thunder as he addressed them.
“This wasn’t a mistake. This wasn’t lost footing or poor timing.” His hand closed around the haft of his spear, tight enough to whiten his knuckles. “This was a message.”
Dozens of sharp eyes watched him. Some flinched. Some nodded. All listened.
“Whatever is lurking in the trees… whatever made them vanish—we answer.”
He turned to his left where Han stood, jaw clenched, arms strapped in thick leather, a heavy axe hanging from one side. To his right, Changbin’s expression was unreadable, but his muscles were taut with tension. They were the strongest Alphas in the pack. They were the wall between life and death now.
“We sweep the East Ridge. Keep formation. Do not engage unless I say. We find the trail, and we follow it.”
He didn’t mention that Felix’s scent had been lost halfway across the dried creek. That Minho’s was masked with too much blood. That the Healer’s hut hadn’t held anything warm since the day Minho’s voice stopped echoing there.
He didn’t have to.
“May the Moon keep us swift,” he finished.
Hyunjin remained behind, lips pressed into a thin line as he watched the war party vanish into the forest. The wind carried their scent for a few moments longer before it was swallowed up by bark and breath and shadow.
He turned toward the inner rings of the pack. His voice was gentler than Chan’s, but no less steady.
“We need healers stationed near the wells and river lines. The nursery must stay full-stocked. Omegas and their pups are to remain inside the inner ring unless accompanied. No exceptions.”
A young mother, eyes wide, clutched her toddler close and nodded.
He looked over the furs Felix had once folded, the roots Minho used to sort by scent and strength. His chest twisted.
“I won’t let this happen again,” Hyunjin said softly. “Not to anyone else.”