The snow was thick that morning, crisp beneath Thorne’s boots as he moved along the edge of the woods. His eyes narrowed as he crouched low, fingertips brushing a clean set of prints. They were fresh. Deliberate. Wrong.
He stood slowly, breath forming mist. “Northcrest,” he muttered.
Mira heard the word from the cabin doorway. Her blood chilled instantly. She moved forward, clutching Caelan and Rowen tighter against her chest.
“Are you sure?” she asked, voice thin.
He didn’t look at her. “I’m sure.”
“Could it be a scout?” she pressed, heart thudding. “A patrol?”
“Does it matter?” he asked, eyes still on the tracks. “It’s Northcrest.”
Her legs felt unsteady beneath her. She looked down at her sons. “He knows I’m gone,” she whispered.
Thorne finally turned. His eyes were steady, unreadable. “You must never go back. For them.”
She met his gaze, trying to draw strength from it. “It’s not that simple.”
“No,” he agreed. “But neither are you.”
That afternoon, she strapped the twins to her back and picked up the wooden sword. Her muscles were still weak. Her movements weren’t perfect. But she swung anyway. Her breath came hard, her arms trembling.
Thorne said nothing as she trained. He simply watched, eyes following every step, every breath. When she dropped the sword, he handed it back without a word. Mira just nodded and lifted it again.
“You’re pushing too wide,” he said after her fourth swing. “Keep your arms closer.”
She adjusted and tried again. “Like this?”
“Better,” he murmured.
She stopped for a moment, breathing hard. “What if I’m not ready when he comes?”
“Then you keep swinging,” Thorne replied. “Even if your arms shake.”
“Even if I lose?”
He stepped closer, eyes sharp. “You won’t. Not with that fire in your chest. And not while I’m still alive.”
Later, as the boys napped, Mira caught him crouched by the fire, Caelan in his arms.
“Who’s the fiercest little wolf, huh?” he asked, lifting the boy and nuzzling his cheek. Caelan giggled, grabbing Thorne’s nose.
“Ow,” he said with mock offense. “You planning to lead your own pack already?”
Rowen gurgled in the cradle beside them. Thorne leaned over and tapped his nose. “You think your brother’s funny? Just wait. You’ll both be trouble.”
Mira paused, warmth blooming in her chest. She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes soft.
“They’re strong,” Thorne said, still rocking Caelan. “Like you.”
“They’ll need to be,” she said quietly.
He looked up at her. “They already are. They have you.”
She stepped inside slowly. “And they have you.”
He didn’t answer, but the look in his eyes said more than words.
That night, Mira couldn’t sleep. The wind outside groaned like something hungry. When she closed her eyes, she saw Ronan’s face—blank and cold. She heard Lady Virella’s cruel laugh. The sting of betrayal crept back in like frost beneath the skin.
She turned in her blanket, pulling it tighter around her shoulders. Her eyes drifted to the cradle where her sons slept, tiny breaths puffing steadily into the dark.
Thorne sat by the door, sharpening his blade in the firelight. The rhythmic scrape of stone and steel was oddly comforting.
“Do you think he’s already looking for us?” she asked suddenly.
Thorne didn’t look up. “He never stopped.”
“What if he finds us?”
Thorne paused. “Then he’ll learn what it means to face a wolf who doesn’t run anymore.”