Howls and Chants

Knock! Knock! Knock!

The sound hammered against the silence like a war drum, each strike was colder than the last. It echoed through the tiny wooden shack, not as a visitor's arrival but as a grim omen.

Harper's spoon slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor, the metallic clang jarring against the stillness. Her breath caught, her eyes widen as she stared toward the door as though it might collapse inward from sheer dread.

Ambrose, Celeste's father, went deathly pale. His hand, suspended mid-air with a piece of bread, trembled before lowering slowly. His lips moved without sound, a silent prayer whispered to no one in particular. Even the fire, crackling a moment ago in the hearth, seemed to recoil from the moment, flickering low as if cowering.

Tristan sat bolt upright at the table, his fork paused halfway to his mouth. His heart launched into a punishing rhythm, thudding so hard that it echoed in his ears. Cold rushed through his veins, replacing the warmth of supper with dread. The cozy scent of stew turned acrid in his nose.

Outside, silhouetted against the lamplight that danced on the wet earth, stood a figure carved of moonlight and steel, a woman, Vivian, cloaked in midnight-blue silk. The fabric shimmered with every movement, heavy with presence, and on her chest gleamed the unmistakable silver crest of the royal family.

She was regal, severe, and untouchable, her very posture exuded command. Her gaze, though hidden in shadow, radiated purpose like a blade drawn in silence.

She had come looking for her son.

- Earlier That Day -

The sun had dipped lazily behind the spires of evergreen trees that stood like watchmen around the royal field. Its light spilled long and golden, casting jagged shadows across the worn dirt where grass once grew. The sharp scent of pine mingled with dust and sweat as Tristan and his friends tore through the field, shrieking with laughter, their royal banners stitched to their tunics billowing behind them like wings.

On the sidelines stood Celeste, she was silent, barefoot, and small. Her toes curled into the cool soil, grounding herself. Her dress was a washed-out blue, too long for her frame, it fluttered in the breeze like forgotten fabric on a scarecrow. It hung off her shoulders, hiding the sharpness of her collarbones and the strength she kept tucked quietly inside.

With every sharp whistle from Landon, she dashed off obediently to retrieve the scuffed leather ball or hunt down the sticks they flung like careless lords. No praise followed her return, only more commands.

"She runs faster than she looks," Genevieve giggled behind her manicured hand, her smile was brittle and sweet like poisoned honey.

Lucius, who is tall and smug, added, "Yeah, maybe she should be the pack's new bloodhound."

Their laughter cracked through the air like whips. Heat surged up Celeste's neck, painting her cheeks with a flush she could not wipe away. But she didn't flinch. She didn't meet their eyes. She simply turned, letting the wind steal their cruelty before it could sink deeper into her skin. She had learned to let the wind carry the hurt, to pretend it never landed.

But before the next sneer could escape Lucius's lips, a voice cleaved the air like lightning splitting a storm.

"That's enough."

Every head turned. Tristan stood with his eyes sharp and gleaming beneath messy chestnut hair that caught the last rays of sun. His stance which was usually relaxed, was rigid now, firm with quiet fury. The familiar boyish grin had vanished and was replaced by something rarer, resolve.

"She's helping because you're all too lazy to chase after your own mistakes," he said evenly, the bite in his voice was unmistakable. It wasn't a yell. It didn't need to be. His words landed like stones.

A hush fell over the field.

Genevieve looked down, her smile faltering. Lucius scratched the back of his neck, suddenly interested in his shoes, even Landon's usual bluster caught in his throat.

Celeste was stunned, she looked up, and for the first time, she didn't brace for another blow. She met his eyes which had no mockery, no pity, just an unexpected kindness. It wrapped around her like warmth after a long frost.

Tristan held her gaze a moment longer before turning back to the others, unblinking.

Landon, who was now red-faced and stung, kicked at a loose stone. His scowl deepened as he muttered beneath his breath, "Hmph. Speaking of unwanted guests..." He jerked his chin toward the edge of the field.

Celeste followed his gaze, and her stomach dropped. Because at the tree line, half-shadowed and unmoving, was a figure in blue silk watching. Standing there, half in shadow, was Orion.

He didn't say a word. He Just stood still at the edge of the clearing, tall and lean, almost too still , like he was barely holding himself together. The breeze tugged at his black hair, strands falling messily into his face. His arms were locked across his chest, with his fists clenched under his sleeves, every muscle in his body drawn tight. And those eyes , pale blue, icy, sexy and distant, scanned the group without the slightest flicker of feeling. But something about the way he stood, stiff and silent, said more than words ever could.

Landon scoffed loudly, eager for the attention. "Your twin brother sure knows how to make the air colder, Tristan."

A few of the others chuckled under their breath, half nervous and half entertained, watching for Tristan's reaction.

Tristan's jaw clenched. His expression hardened as he slowly turned toward Orion.

"He's no brother of mine," Tristan said, with each word sharp and deliberate.