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Grae was aware of the wolves he had once called his pack all around him, but the only one he had eyes for was Rostfar. Alive. She didn’t even look injured – but she didn’t look entirely human, either. There was an aura about her now that Grae hadn’t felt before; it permeated her scent and her body language, visible even without the wyrdsight. Her eyes were as amber as any wolf’s.
He expected to read anger on her – or worse, disdain. But she smiled, and it was like a burst of sunlight in Grae’s chest.
“It’s good to see you safe,” Rostfar said. She looked and sounded like she meant it, which Grae couldn’t understand at all. Perhaps she didn’t remember. Perhaps nobody knew what he had done—
But no. Grae could see the uncertainty carved into each wolf; could smell their distrust heavy in the air. His eyes went from Yrsa to Bryn to Geren to Ysmir, and he knew that he didn’t deserve to look at them as equals. He was unwolf. They were wolf. The yawning chasm between them was wider than the sea.
Myr stepped forwards, coming to a halt in front of Rostfar, and steadily raked his gaze over Grae. He wasn’t snarling or bristling, but the threat was there nonetheless.
Grae bowed his head. Myr lunged.
Pinned to the leaflitter, tasting damp earth, Grae waited for the killing bite. He would have preferred it not to happen in front of Yrsa, but all his choices had long been stripped away from him.
Myr touched his nose gently to Grae’s shoulder. The scents of home and safety washed over Grae, taunting him, making him whine like a lost pup. The moments stretched on and on, and Grae continued to live.
“I am glad you are home,” Myr said at last, and his weight vanished. Grae still couldn’t move. He didn’t understand.
“Grae?” Rostfar stood over him with an expression of concern on her face, half in the act of crouching down to his height. Grae shook her off and got to his feet, feeling worn out and cold to his core. The pack hadn’t killed him, but they hadn’t welcomed him, either. Was this how he was supposed to live now, caught in limbo? He wasn’t sure he could bear it.
“I . . .” But Grae didn’t know what to say. He dipped his nose to the ground to avoid her eyes. Rostfar let out a sad, breathy noise.
“Come on,” she said, “come sit with us.”
Not knowing what else to do, Grae followed her.
Rostfar went straight to her den, from which the smell of blood and pain emanated in crushing waves. Grae could hear urgent voices undercut by the gentle murmuring of the healer-human, Marken; the sound of a pack drawing close around an injured member. He had no place among them.
“Are you hungry?”
The question startled Grae. He looked up and saw Kristan sitting on a flat rock not far from where his mother lay sleeping, taking something from a bag by his feet. When Grae continued to stare, Kristan held out a fleshy strip of something that smelled like squirrel.
“No.”
Kristan’s mouth twisted. “It’s not tainted, I promise. Isha says it’s just dried squirrel.”
Grae continued to eye the meat. With a sharp sigh, Kristan put the end in his mouth and ripped off a chunk. He chewed deliberately, swallowed, and then tossed the remainder to the ground.
“Where are Mati and – the other, Isha?”
Kristan shrugged. “Walking. Talking. Not far.”
“And this . . . came from Rostfar?”
“Yeah.” Kristan nudged the meat on the ground with his foot, then took a fresh piece from his bag. “It’s there if you want it.”
Grae took the meat cautiously. It was very tough and salty, but Grae was hungry, and he didn’t have the energy to hunt for himself. He kept one eye on Kristan as he ate. If he had to describe what he was feeling, he would call it wariness, but that . . . wasn’t quite right. There was concern there, too, and a creeping bewilderment.
“Why aren’t you with your pack? Thought you’d be all over each other now that you’re home again.”
Grae flinched internally. “I’m not.”
“Not what?” Kristan frowned at him.
“Home.” The word tasted sour to Grae. “I can’t – I’m not a wolf anymore.”
“You look like one to me,” Kristan said with a derisive snort.
“I’ve lost the wyrdsight,” Grae forced himself to explain, even though it felt like a hole was appearing in his stomach with every word. “Our connection to the wyrdness is the core of what it means to be wolvenkind, and I no longer have it. Because I acted like – like a human.”
“That’s funny.” Kristan didn’t look amused, though. He drew his knees up to his chest and hugged them with his arm. His shoulders were hunched like a baby bird sheltering from the cold. “See, considering what I did to you – using trickery and force – some would say I was acting like a wolf.”
“We would never—”
“That’s the point,” Kristan snapped before Grae’s indignation could break out in full. “We see each other as monsters, ‘cause we’re angry and we need someone to blame, but that isn’t . . . how things are. Not anymore.” He sucked in a sharp breath. “Aethren’s not human. Rost is . . . I don’t know what she is. And Ethy tried to kill Aethren and Mam, and now she’s dead, and I trusted her. I thought she understood me like nobody else did. I never thought she’d . . .” he choked off into silence.
Grae didn’t know much about Ethy, other than her cruel hands and crueller intentions, but he did know the terrible lure of being understood.
“You trusted her because you didn’t think you could trust anyone else,” Grae said, “and that made you do terrible things.”
Kristan stared at him. Grae met his gaze for only a heartbeat, then looked sharply away.
“I know how it happens,” Grae explained.
“Is that why you – you know, got Rost hurt?”
Grae bowed his head in assent. He expected Kristan to snap at him or kick him, but that didn’t happen. Instead, Kristan slumped forwards and scowled at the ground. Unmoving.
“The point is,” Kristan said at last, “that it doesn’t unmake our entire being, or whatever. Saying that is like giving up. And I don’t want to give up – I want to do better. Do you?”
Grae only had to think for a moment before saying, “Yes,” with more certainty than he had felt about anything in a long time.
“Then you’re still you and I’m still me, which is what matters, according to Mam.”
Grae bowed his head in confusion. He wasn’t entirely sure what it meant to “be himself”. His life had felt so defined by Nessen’s death, and now that he was making choices for himself, everything had gone wrong. And yet – if Kristan was right, then Grae could make better choices. His own choices, not driven by fear or anger. He let out a long, trembling breath.
“Thank you.”
Kristan’s cheeks went red. “What for?”
“You have . . . helped, I think.” Grae stood and touched his nose to Kristan’s forehead; the deepest and most sincere expression of gratitude that Grae knew. Kristan’s face wrinkled up and his cheeks went a deeper shade of red, but he didn’t pull away.
“Oh,” he said faintly. “Well – sure, okay. Good. Um—” he started scrounging through the pouches in his clothes, not looking at Grae. “Do you want to play knucklebones?”
Grae tilted his head, unable to make sense of the question. Kristan produced a little bag, shaking its contents so that they rattled gently.
“I don’t know if you can, but,” Kristan gave a lopsided shrug, “it’s probably the only thing I can do right now, so? Give it a try?”
“Okay,” Grae agreed slowly. A tight, relieved smile twitched across Kristan’s lips and he tipped a set of small bones onto the ground. Grae sniffed them. “Are they for eating?”
“No!” Kristan let out a startled laugh, some of the hard tension in his shoulders melting away. “You play like this,” he said, and then he began to explain.
Grae still wasn’t sure how he felt about Kristan, but the company was . . . nice, even if the game seemed strange and pointless. It wouldn’t solve all his problems but, as Kristan talked and Grae tried to listen, he felt the deep pain in his soul ease.
