Chapter 217

It’s a celebration that’s starting to feel very far away, somehow due to the feeling of tension coiling around the packhouse. Wolves stand in groups, their voices hushed, eyes darting nervously toward the forest.

I pace by the window, my stomach tied. It’s too quiet. That kind of quiet that signals trouble.

Dane steps into the clearing, pale face drawn tight. His hand opens, disclosing a piece of bark with strange, glowing marks etched into it.

“We got a problem,” he says; the tone urgent as hell.

But before he has a chance to explain himself, I am bursting through the packhouse door, my heart beating with an irregular rhythm, words bursting from my lips well in advance of the possibility of a rational mind actually preventing them from happening.

“It’s too late,” I whisper, shaking. “They’re already here.”

The room falls silent, and all eyes whip to me. Aurora elbows her way through the parted crowd, a mask of fear and determination across her face.

“What do you mean, ‘they’re already here‘?” she asks, her voice…

“The Forgotten,” I spoke low and quietly. “It has waited for such a thing, and it now… comes to us.”

The eyes of Aurora narrowed on the question of “who.” Who were they, and what would they do?

I swallow hard, the weight of the truth heavy inside me. “The Forgotten were exiled a very long time ago,” I begin. “In Kael’s time. They felt this grove was to be used, wielded. To control life, not to help it.” The room seems to tilt; whispers spread as the pack exchanges uneasy glances.

“They saw the grove as a weapon,” I continue. “And when Kael and the rest wouldn’t side with their beliefs, they exiled them. No one ever heard of them again. Many thought they were murdered.”

Aurora’s eyes narrow. “But they’re not,” she says.

I shake my head. “No. They went into hiding, just waiting for the day that the grove’s powers were restored. And now that it is back…”

“They think it should be theirs,” Dane concludes grimly.

Aurora’s gaze flicks down to Eira, who still shivers as she sits at the hearth. Her eyes dart nervously and widely about the room, but she says nothing.

“Eira,” Aurora says softly, falling to one knee beside her, “you did know this, didn’t you? That was why you acted so uneasy ever since the grove was fixed.”

the words to describe it.”

Aurora reaches out and lays a comforting touch on her arm. “You need to tell us everything. We can’t protect the pack if we don’t know what we are fighting against.”

Eira stammers, her voice shaking, before she finally says, “The Forgotten weren’t just exiled. They made a pact, an oath to return when the grove’s power was at its peak. I didn’t believe it was anything more than words. And then I found the marks within the forest and felt their presence. They’re coming to take what they believe belongs to them.”

The weight of her words hangs heavy within the room, and the pack listens in tense silence, their fear palpable.

Dane steps forward, his face unreadable. “Where did you see the marks?”

“In the western forest,” Eira says. “Near the old riverbed.”

Dane nods, clenching his jaw. “I’ll go,” he says. “We need to know how close they are.”

“I’ll go with you,” I say before I can stop myself.

Dane narrows his eyes, staring at me ominously. “You don’t have to.”

“I know,” I respond. “But I want to.”

Aurora gets up between the two of us; her tone allows for no argument. “Be careful. Both of you. We do not know what they…”

Dane nods in acquiescence as we leave the packhouse, the responsibility for pack safety weighing our shoulders down.

The forest feels different now: darker, colder. The normal night sounds are gone; instead, an uncomfortable silence laps around us. We hurry onward but cautiously, our senses high. As we are deep within, something unnatural grows in strength.

At last, when we reach the riverbed. I see them, the signs Eira described carved into the trees, their twisted lines glowing faintly.

Dane steps closer, his hand back brushing against the bark. “They’re alive,” he whispers.

I shiver as it catches my eye, a pulsating sheen filling the symbols, and is suddenly so unnatural it feels wrong. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” Dane replies. “But they aren’t just warnings. They are claiming this land.”

We go further inside the forest. Whatever is unnatural becomes heavy.

We find it eventually, an abandoned campsite. The firepit is cold, but everywhere are the signs of recent occupation. Bones etched with runes lie scattered on the ground, their surfaces gleaming in the moonlight. A map pinned to a tree marks Broken Ridge, the lines leading straight to the grove.

Dane stoops and picks up one of the bones. His face has gone hard. “And they’re planning something big.”

The thought sends a shiver down my spine. “We need to get back,” I say. “Now.”

Dane nods, and we wheel toward the packhouse, our movements swift and urgent.

As we reach the clearing, I see it, a thick unnatural fog creeping through the trees, shrouding the territory in a heavy veil.

My breath catches in my throat.

“It’s too late,” I whisper, the words weighted with dread. “They’re already here.”

Dane stiffens beside me, his hand going instinctively to the top of his blade. The fog presses forward, unnatural in its movements, curling around the trees like sentient branches.

“We gotta get word to others,” he says with all emphasis on his quietened tone, then nods as the weight weighs on his stance.

My head nodded; but my feet wouldn’t rise a single movement, the knowledge that we hadn’t waited for backup seemed to press down on me hard enough I felt ice pour through me.

“Dane,” I said in just over a whisper, “I think you hear them…”

Dane turned to me, his face deadly serious. “It’s not about the fog.”

The air grows colder and sharper. A faint sound rises from my spine.

“They’re in there,” I whisper.

Dane grasps my arm and tugs backward. “Can’t take them alone. Let’s go.”

We turn and run, the earth watery and unstable beneath our feet as the fog closes in. My heart pounds in my chest, every beat louder than the last.

We burst into the packhouse, and the tension is instantaneous. Wolves turn to us, their faces pale with concern.

Aurora is the first to reach us, her eyes scanning our features. “What is it?” she asks her voice tight with urgency.

“The fog,” Dane says, his breathing rapid. “It’s not natural. They are using it to advance.”

The packhouse erupts in chaos: growling, murmurs, wolves shuffling frantically and scurrying about. One sharp gesture by Aurora quiets them.

“Prepare for defense,” she says, her voice slicing through the panic. “No one leaves the territory until we know what we’re dealing with.“