Chapter 14
The next morning felt different.
The air held a stillness, not of fear, but of calm. For the first time in years, no one woke up to screaming or orders barked from guards. No one jumped at shadows. No one looked over their shoulder, waiting for pain.
Instead, the sun rose over a camp that was rebuilding itself from the inside out.
I sat outside our cabin, my legs crossed beneath me, as I stitched up a torn shirt from the last battle. My hands moved slowly, carefully—odd how the same fingers that once tore flesh could now mend fabric.
He approached from the training field, his shirt clinging to his skin, damp with sweat. His hair was tied back, a scar now clearly visible across the side of his neck. I hadn’t seen it before.
I stood and walked toward him.
“You didn’t tell me they got that close,” I said, brushing my thumb over the old wound.
He smirked. “Didn’t want you to worry.”
“I’m always worrying.”
His smirk faded into something gentler. “Then let me show you why you don’t have to anymore.”
We walked together past the cabins and campfires. The survivors were out—training, cooking, laughing. The young ones chased each other in circles. For a second, I forgot we were surrounded by wolves who’d known only chains and screams. Now, they were just… living.
He stopped near the riverbank, beneath the tall pine trees.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “We need more than just safety. We need something permanent. A place where this can never happen again.”
I tilted my head. “Like a sanctuary?”
“Like a new beginning.”
He crouched and drew in the dirt with a stick—a rough layout of cabins, training grounds, gardens, even a school.
“A place where wolves like us aren’t hunted or used. Where they can be born, grow up free, never know what it’s like to be sold.”
His voice cracked slightly at that last word. I knelt beside him.
“You’re not just building a home,” I whispered. “You’re building a future.”
He nodded slowly. “But I can’t do it without you.”
I stared at the lines in the dirt, imagining it full of life, laughter, warmth. And for once, I let myself hope.
“I’m with you,” I said. “Every step.”
That evening, we gathered everyone by the fire. He stood tall, his presence commanding not with fear—but with quiet strength. The kind earned through pain, not taken by force.
He told them what we’d build.
A place that wouldn’t just survive—but thrive.
He offered them choice—stay and become part of something new, or leave and start their own path with our blessing and support.
No one left.
They all stayed.
Because for the first time, they had something worth staying for.
After the fire died down and the others returned to their cabins, he and I stood under the stars. The forest whispered around us, wind threading softly through the trees.
“You know,” I said, “when I was chained, I used to dream of nights like this.”
He looked at me. “And now you have them.”
I nodded. “But they’re better than I imagined. Because I have you.”
He took my hand in his, kissed the scarred knuckles gently.
“No matter what comes next,” he said, “we face it together.”
And we stood there, beneath the sky that no longer looked like a ceiling, but a horizon.
Ours to chase.