I went to the triplet’s nursery in the morning.
Phoenix sits in the metal chair, spine straight, hands grip the rail. I can see dents forming where her fingers press into steel with force that shouldn't come from a child.
"Sweetheart, you need to eat something."
"I'm not hungry."
"You haven't eaten since yesterday—"
"I said I'm not hungry!" Her voice is tight, a miniature version of her father's command tone. "If I leave and something happens, if those men come back and nobody's here—"
"There are four wolves guarding this wing."
"They didn't stop them last time," she looks up, and the expression on her face is decades too old. "Mommy, I need to be here. I'm the strongest person in this room right now. If they come again, I'm the one who can stop them."
She's right. My daughter has become the most physically powerful person in this wing. The dents deepening in the chair rail confirm it with every passing hour.
"At least let me sit with you."
She nods, attention already back on her father's breathing. From the corner, Luna whimpers.
She's been curled there—knees drawn to chest, hands pressed flat over her ears, body rocking to a rhythm that matches no music I can hear. The sedation has worn off, and whatever dam held back her empathic abilities has shattered completely.
"Luna, talk to me. Tell me what you're feeling, my dear."
The word comes out strangled. "Everyone. The wolves outside are angry and scared. Elara is worried she made a mistake with Daddy's treatment. Uncle Lysander is terrified Caroline will leave…"
"Can you try the shielding exercises? Build the wall, brick by brick—"
"There is no wall!" Tears stream down her face. "It's like holding back an ocean with my hands. Every wolf in this compound is hurting, Mommy. Hundreds of them, and I feel every single one. The grief, the paranoia, the fear from children who heard the explosions—"
"Focus on my voice, just listen to mine."
"I can't separate it. You're all this massive wave of pain crashing over me and I can't breathe." She presses her face into her knees. "Make it stop. Please, Mommy, make it stop hurting."
I pull her into my lap, wrapping my body around hers like a shield against the emotional tsunami drowning her.
"Your gift is expanding. Your empathy has broken open, and it's flooding you with everything it can reach."
"I don't want it. Take it back, please—"
"I can't, baby, but we can learn to manage it. Elara will help, and we'll find empathic wolves who can teach you to build shields that hold."
"What if I'm stuck like this forever, drowning in everyone else until there's nothing left of me?"
The terror in her voice mirrors something I recognize—the fear of being consumed by what you are. I lived through my own awakening, my wolf surfacing in violence, the shift that nearly killed me.
"Orion?" I call toward the hallway. "Come in here, please."
No response. I settle Luna against Phoenix's chair—her sister reaches down and places one hand on Luna's head, gentle despite the strength crushing steel inches away—and move to the door.
Orion sits on the floor outside, legs crossed, eyes unfocused, lips moving in rapid sequences.
"Look at me, dear."
"They're going to come back, Mommy… And hurt more people… And I can see it happening but I can't make it stop."
His voice is shaking, his small hands gripping fistfuls of his pants.
"The fence isn't fixed right and the drainage tunnels are open and nobody's checking them and everyone's too tired and I can't stop seeing all the ways it goes wrong—"
"Orion! Look at me."
His eyes don't focus. They track something invisible—patterns, probability flows, tactical futures unfolding in a mind processing information no child should access.
"Daddy's survival probability given compound concentration and compromised physiology: 94% with current intervention. But long-term projections for pack stability without a shifting Alpha are—"
He swallows, and the child surfaces through the calculations. "They're really bad, Mommy. The numbers say really bad things about what happens next."
I kneel and take his face in my hands. His pupils are dilated, tracking micro-movements I can't perceive.
"You're seeing tactical patterns. Futures that haven't happened yet."
"I can't turn it off," his voice cracks. "Since Daddy got hurt, it's like someone opened a door in my head. Numbers and patterns and outcomes for every scenario, branching from this moment. I see them simultaneously and I can't make them stop."
"What's the probability that your mother figures out how to help you?"
His analytical framework encounters a variable it can't quantify: "I... don't have enough data for that."
"Exactly. Some things can't be predicted, baby, even by the smartest boy I've ever known." I pull him against me. "Your gift is waking up, just like your sisters'. I know it's terrifying, but you are not alone in this."
I guide him into the medical wing. Three children manifesting abilities that make them unprecedented in pack history, each gift feeding off the others' trauma in a feedback loop I have no manual for.
I recognize what's happening because I lived through it myself—awakening. The trauma has triggered dormant supernatural abilities, cracking them open simultaneously in all three of my children at once.
Phoenix's strength surges with protective fury, crushing metal. Luna's empathy expands with collective grief, drowning her. Orion's tactical sight sharpens with escalating danger, consuming him.
They're becoming extraordinary, and they're terrified of what they're turning into.
I gather all three together in Kieran’s chamber. Their father breathes beside us, oblivious to the transformation happening in his children.
"Mommy?" Luna's voice comes small and waterlogged. "Are we going to be okay?"
I search for an honest answer that isn't a lie. The truth is I don't know if Luna's shields will hold, if Orion's mind will survive foresight's weight, if Phoenix's strength will destroy the people she loves.
I don't know if any of us will survive what Silvermoon has become.
"We're going to figure this out, dear."
Phoenix's grip eases on the bed rail. Luna's shaking slows. Orion's eyes refocus, finding mine, and the child looks out from behind the strategist for one grateful moment.
Alpha heirs cracking open with power they can't control, and a mother who has no idea what she's doing but refuses to let them see it.