"Go back! Please, go back!" I screamed through tears, my voice raw with panic. Tears blurred my vision as I clutched falcon's feathers, fingers stiff and shaking. The air howled in my ears, drowning my words. falcon didn't even falter. We kept flying, the battlefield shrinking behind us until it was just a smear of lightning and smoke.
We landed hard in front of Harold's house. Rain hit like needles, cold and relentless. I slid off Falcon's back, soaked through in seconds, boots splashing in the mud. My teeth chattered, but my thoughts burned.
Mom was already rushing toward me. Her arms opened, trembling. "Anne, it's okay. Come here."
I didn't move.
"Anne," she said again, stepping closer, her voice fragile. She reached out and grabbed my wrist gently, like touching a soap bubble that might burst.
Her touch hurt. It was too soft, too familiar, too safe.
"No!" I tore my arm away and stumbled backward. Then I ran.
The storm raged all around, but I pushed through it, sprinting toward where I knew Master and Dale had gone. I didn't get far.
Two massive shadows dropped into my path, blocking the way. My father and Harold—both fully shifted, wolves now. Towering, fur bristling, fangs glinting in the flickering lightning. Their eyes glowed faintly gold in the dark, watching me, calm and unmoving.
"Move!" I yelled, breath catching. "Move, please! I have to help them!"
Dad lowered his head slightly, his growl more of a vibration than a sound. But when he spoke, the words were clear.
"Anne. Think. Going back now... what can you do? Will you help them—or just die with them?"
I froze, panting. The cold rain beat down on my back. My fists clenched so tight my nails cut into my palms. I didn't care. I couldn't just do nothing.
Behind me, I heard the quiet crunch of steps—my siblings. Helix. Henry. Ally. They stood a little ways off, silent, watching me.
I turned toward them, voice sharp and breaking. "If none of you will do anything, then I will!" My throat burned and my knees almost buckled at the sound of his name. "Dale…" I whispered again, crying. "He's out there because of me. Because of me."
They didn't answer. They just stared.
I didn't scream with my mouth—I screamed with my mind. I hurled everything at them: the rage, the fear, the raw, splintered grief. It wasn't a sentence. It was a storm, tearing through the silence between us.
I didn't turn to my siblings. I didn't need to. My akiham carried my voice straight into their heads, clear and sharp as if I'd whispered it into their ears, 'Help me.'
Helix staggered back a step, like I'd hit him. "How did you...?"
I didn't answer. I just stared at him, daring him to say no.
He exhaled hard, jaw tight. Then he nodded once. In seconds, all three of them—Helix, Henry, Ally—dropped to the ground and shifted, bones cracking, muscles reshaping. Their wolves rose up out of them like memories coming to life.
Mom's scream cut through the rain. She collapsed to her knees, hands over her mouth. Her whole body shook. Not from fear—but from the truth she'd tried for years to keep buried.
Her children were warriors now. And it was already too late to stop it.
Harold stepped forward, his wolf form gone. Human again, his face shadowed by stormlight. "Where was this courage when we raided the Red Fox lair?" he asked coldly. "Why didn't you jump off falcon's back then? What made you wait until now—when the damage's already done?"
"Stop," I said, but my voice barely carried over the storm. It trembled, thin and broken.
Harold didn't flinch. He took another step forward, eyes narrowed. "You didn't jump because you knew. You knew you couldn't fight them alone. So you waited. You waited until your siblings could back you up." His voice was steady, sharp. "But tell me this—do you really think you can win?"
"I said stop!" The word cracked from my throat like thunder, but he didn't stop.
"Anne, face it," Harold said, quieter now, but more dangerous because of it. "You know how powerful they are. Dale made his choice because he had to. And now you're ready to risk your entire family over emotions you can't control."
His words hit harder than I expected. Not because they were wrong—but because they were too close to the truth.
"Then what should I do, Harold?" I screamed. My voice scraped raw, soaked with rain and fury and the kind of pain that hollowed you out from the inside. "Stand here and watch them die? Pretend everything's fine just like all of you did with us?"
I spun on Mom and Dad before he could answer. The words poured out like venom I'd held in for years.
"Did either of you know Ally was bullied so badly she nearly didn't make it out of third grade? No. You didn't. Did you know she transformed during one of the attacks? That she almost killed someone? That Master had to physically stop her?"
Mom's lips parted, but no sound came out.
I didn't stop.
"I'm still here because of Dale. Because Master stayed and fought for me when I couldn't. I should be dead. And now—now when they need us the most—you're asking me to walk away?"
My voice cracked apart at the end. I didn't care. I was done pretending. Done holding it in.
The rain kept falling. That was the only sound. Just water on the roof and the ground, steady and cold and uncaring.
Then Eli moved. Quietly, she came up behind me and slipped a blanket over my shoulders. Her hands were gentle, and her voice softer than I'd heard all night.
"Anne… I know you're angry. So am I. But right now, you need to get warm. Dry off. Dale wouldn't want everything he gave up to mean nothing."
I looked at her. Looked at the others—my family, standing in the rain, eyes down, lips pressed shut. So much hurt in every face. So many secrets no one had wanted to say out loud until now.
I sighed. My hands uncurled. I gripped the blanket, not because I was cold, but because it was something to hold on to. Something to keep me from falling apart again.
"Let's go," I muttered.
We turned and headed back to the house. I didn't speak. Just walked. The warmth inside felt fake, like it didn't belong to me. I went straight to the bathroom, shut the door, and stepped into the shower.
The water hit like fire at first, stinging my skin after the cold. But even as it warmed, it couldn't reach the part of me that had gone numb.
Outside, muffled through the door, I heard voices.
"Survey every inch. They went northeast. Check near the ridge," Harold said to someone—Sheriff Donovan, maybe.
"If he's still alive…" Donovan murmured.
His voice faded as they walked away. I didn't want to hear any more.
Later, Eli called us to dinner. I dried off, pulled on clean clothes, and dragged myself to the long dining table. No one really talked. Forks scraped plates. Spoons clinked against bowls. The rain pattered softly against the windows, like it was still trying to get in.
The front door slammed open so hard it rattled the walls.
"Harold!" Sheriff Donovan shouted, stepping inside, soaked to the bone. Rainwater dripped from the brim of his hat and streamed off his long coat, pooling on the floorboards.
Everyone at the table froze. Forks hovered in midair. I set mine down without looking.
Donovan's face was pale, his jaw tight. He stood there for a second, chest heaving, like he didn't want to say what he'd come to say.
"I checked the whole area," he said finally, voice low. "Every ridge. Every crater. North slope. The old fox den. Even the riverbanks." He looked straight at Harold. "I couldn't find him."
A silence dropped over the room like a shroud. Even the rain seemed to pause outside the windows.
Harold shot up from his chair. "So there's still a chance," he said quickly, eyes locked on Donovan. "If there's no body, there's still a chance. Right?"
Donovan didn't answer right away. He reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled something out—a folded photo, smudged with ash and wet fingerprints. He laid it on the table.
The image was black and white, but it didn't need color to hit hard. The battlefield looked like a nightmare—scorched ground, torn earth, something that might've once been armor in the far corner. Blood soaked into the dirt like it belonged there.
Donovan didn't look up. His voice was barely more than a whisper. "If anyone could survive that…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
I stared at the photo. Then at my plate. I hadn't taken a bite. My food was cold. None of it mattered.
I stood. My chair scraped loudly across the wood floor, the only sound in the room besides the ticking clock and the storm pressing against the windows.
Everyone turned toward me. Their eyes followed as I walked to the doorway. I felt their gazes, heavy and expectant—like they were waiting for me to break down. Or to hope. Or to scream.
But I didn't do any of those things.
I paused in the doorway and looked over my shoulder, my voice flat, drained of everything except truth.
"What did you expect?"
No one answered.
Then I stepped into the hall. The storm swallowed the sound of my footsteps before I reached the stairs.