Eila's feet barely touched the ground as she sprinted back toward the outer borders of the pack, the edge of her neighbourhood looming ahead like a familiar dream blurred by the night. The silence of the streets, once bustling with life and laughter, felt heavier than ever, like a warning. The moon hung high, its silver glow doing little to soothe the storm in her chest.
She called out in her mind, softly at first.
Sera?
No response.
Sera, please… say something.
It wasn't until the third time that her wolf stirred—quietly, almost reluctantly.
"I'm here."
Her voice was subdued, far from the vibrant and fierce energy that usually pulsed through their bond. Eila frowned. What's wrong?
There was a pause, and then the soft, vulnerable whisper: "I've never felt so helpless."
Eila's heart clenched.
"I always believed I was strong… that I could protect you, protect our loved ones. But today… today showed me how wrong I was. I froze, Eila. And I hate myself for it. We're nowhere near strong enough. I need to change that. We both do."
Eila didn't try to offer empty comfort. She understood—because she felt the same way. Today had broken something in both of them. But it had also lit a fire.
We will become stronger, Sera. I promise.
She stepped through the front door of her house, instantly hit by the sounds of muffled sobs. The dim candlelight flickered in the hallway, guiding her to the source. Her chest tightened.
The youngest twins—barely older than toddlers—were curled into each other on the rug, their faces blotchy from crying. Meera sat close by, her arms around them, whispering soothing words, but it was no use. Their cries were soft, but heartbreaking, like the whimpers of wounded pups.
Eila knelt beside them, and Meera's eyes met hers with a breath of relief. She stepped aside, letting Eila take over without a word. The twins immediately reached for her, their small hands grasping at her arms, and her clothes, needing reassurance, needing someone to tell them things were going to be okay.
But Eila couldn't lie—not to them.
She pulled them into her lap and held them tightly, her voice gentle but firm. "Mom and Dad… they're alive. But they're hurt. Hurt. And they can't come home just yet."
The little ones sniffled, their tiny fingers tightening around hers.
"But they're fighting," she added. "They're strong, just like you two. And they need us to be strong, too. Can you do that for them?"
They nodded, even through their tears, and she kissed the tops of their heads. Eventually, after more soft murmurs and strokes through their hair, their breathing evened out. The moment their small bodies hit the bed, they were asleep—too exhausted to carry their fears any longer.
Eila stood slowly, pulling the blankets over them before going to check on the rest of her siblings. Daria, Drew, and Drake were still awake but curled under their blankets, fear etched into their young faces. She knelt beside each one, offering a smile, a hug, a word of comfort.
Her presence was enough. It didn't erase their fear, but it softened it.
When the house had finally fallen quiet, and the only sound was the whisper of wind outside, Eila turned to Meera and Michael. Without a word, she opened her arms. Meera stepped into her embrace immediately, followed by Michael, his eyes glassy.
"I'm so proud of you both," Eila whispered. "You took care of everything when I couldn't. You kept them safe. I don't know what I'd do without you."
They didn't respond. They didn't have to. The warmth of their shared grief and resilience said it all.
And finally, when the weight of the night caught up with her, she lay down in her bed—her limbs aching, her soul heavier than it had ever been.
But as soon as her eyes closed, the world of dreams pulled her under.
Not into rest.
But into a vision. A vision that was calling her again.
Something ancient, buried and waiting.
Something that whispered: Come find me.
And this time, she would.