3 - Blood Between Packs

KAEL POV

We don’t speak of that night unless blood is drawn.

That’s what Kael’s father used to say.

The fire crackled in the open stone hearth, filling the war room with a shifting orange glow. Smoke curled toward the beams overhead, clinging like the ghosts of the past they never dared name. Kael sat slouched in the massive leather chair, one leg thrown over the armrest, his fingers tapping absently against the hilt of the dagger strapped to his side.

The blade was ceremonial—just like the oath he’d taken to uphold the legacy of Nightclaw. Bloody. Binding. Unforgiving.

Across from him, Elder Malric leaned against the old wooden war table, its surface scarred with years of battle maps, claw marks, and the weight of decisions no Alpha made lightly. The older wolf's arms were crossed, dark beard streaked with silver, eyes as sharp as ever. He didn’t speak right away. Malric never rushed his words.

“Just say it,” Kael muttered without looking up. “You’ve been watching me all night.”

Malric’s brow arched. “I’ve been watching you since you were a pup, Kael. You’ve grown harder to read over the years… but not that hard.”

Kael’s jaw tightened. He looked away, eyes tracking the way the firelight bled over stone and shadow. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” Malric’s voice dropped lower. “You’ve been taking border runs every night like you’re chasing ghosts. Half the pack thinks you’re hunting rogues. The other half knows you’re chasing shadows. And maybe something worse.”

Kael stiffened. Something worse.

She wasn’t a something.

She was a flame-haired temptation. A whisper of warmth in a world gone cold. A wolf with Moonfang blood… and the one fate dared to tie to his soul.

His fated mate.

And he’d barely seen her—only for seconds through the trees, enough to know what she was. Enough for his wolf to go still and silent with the certainty that could only come from the Moon.

Malric pushed off the table and poured two glasses from the bottle between them. “You need to remember why we keep our distance,” he said, handing one to Kael. “Why the border exists.”

Kael accepted the glass but didn’t drink. The scent of the whiskey curled in his nose—smoke, wood, regret. “I remember plenty.”

“Not all of it. You were sixteen when your father died. You didn’t see the start of the war. Just the end.”

Kael’s mouth twisted. “And the funeral.”

He could still hear the roar of the flames from the pyre. Could still smell burnt fur, the sharp tang of blood, the silence of mourning wolves standing in rows as his father’s body burned. A legacy dropped on Kael’s shoulders like a collapsing mountain. And he hadn’t been ready.

He doubted he ever would be.

Malric settled across from him again. “Let me tell you what your father told me. About his father. Your grandfather—Alpha Toren.”

Kael blinked. Malric rarely mentioned Toren. Most didn’t. History that old was usually avoided—too many scars. Too many truths that still hurt.

“Back then,” Malric began, voice quieter, “Nightclaw and Moonfang weren’t enemies. Not truly. Your grandfather and Halric Moonfang fought side by side in the Blackthorn Raids. Blood brothers by battle, not by birth.”

Kael leaned forward slightly. “So what happened?”

“A deal.” Malric’s expression darkened. “After the war, they made a pact. Unite the packs through blood. Halric had a daughter. Toren had a son—your father. They arranged a mating. A permanent bond to unify the land and end territorial conflict.”

Kael swallowed hard. “But it never happened.”

“No,” Malric confirmed. “Because Toren was already mated. Secretly. Chose love over duty. Halric called it betrayal. Said Toren used his daughter to gain leverage and then spit on the alliance.”

Kael stared into the fire. “They met under the full moon to settle it.”

Malric nodded grimly. “Alone. No witnesses. Only one returned.”

“Toren.”

“Covered in blood,” Malric confirmed. “And silent. He never spoke of it again. And Halric’s pack severed ties. Hostilities began within days.”

Kael’s fingers curled around the glass, knuckles white. “And Halric’s grandson is now Alpha of Moonfang.”

“Thorne,” Malric said. “Young. Calculating. Some think he’s soft. I’ve seen steel in him. He’s not his grandfather. But he’s no fool either.”

Kael had met Thorne once in neutral territory. It had been brief—civil. Strategic. Neither one had extended a hand.

And now, if the whispers were true… Thorne was fated to Aria’s sister. His mate’s sister.

The Moon had a twisted sense of humor.

“Do you think my grandfather lied?” Kael asked.

Malric didn’t answer immediately. His silence spoke louder than words.

“I think the truth was buried with both of them. And your father carried that silence like a shield until it killed him.”

Kael drained his glass in one gulp, the burn sharp, biting.

Malric’s gaze didn’t waver. “You carry that legacy now. But only you decide whether to keep bleeding for it.”

Kael stood and crossed to the window, the fire’s reflection flickering behind him. Outside, the night stretched long and still. The forest trembled under moonlight.

Somewhere out there… she was walking beneath the same sky. Maybe dreaming of him. Maybe trying to forget.

His wolf stirred restlessly, tail swishing low, ears up. Ours, it whispered.

Kael closed his eyes.

“I saw her again tonight,” he said quietly. “She didn’t see me. But she felt it. The bond.”

Malric didn’t speak.

Kael’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I can’t stay away.”

The silence stretched, thick as smoke.

Then Malric finally said, "Then you'd better decide if you're willing to burn for it. Because once you're marked by fate, there's no clean escape. No quiet severing."

Kael didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. The truth hung heavy in the air between them.

Outside, the moon crested higher, silvering the treetops. Kael opened the window just a crack, letting the cold air sting his skin. Somewhere in the dark, a wolf howled. Not close. Not hers. But his wolf answered anyway, low and grieving.

Because no matter how many oaths he had made, or how many legacies demanded his obedience—his soul had already chosen.

And now, the question wasn’t whether he would break the border.

It was how long he could pretend not to.