Silence can hold for a long time.
Until it can't.
This chapter is about distance, interruption, and the moment when hiding stops being enough.
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The wolves come every night.
At first, they keep their distance. A ring of moving shadows at the edge of the tree line. Later, they draw closer. Their pacing becomes deliberate and measured. Always the same number. Always the same formation.
We've been here almost a year. Marcus and I stop discussing it. We simply note when the perimeter tightens, when the calls shift pitch, when the silence grows heavier than it should.
It is the howling that breaks the pattern.
It comes just after dusk.
Low. Warning. Wrong.
I am on my feet before the sound finishes carrying across the lake. Marcus is already moving, hand on the door, his posture sharp.
"That's not patrol," he says.
"I know."
The wolves surge.
They break formation and rush the tree line, bodies blurring into motion with a violence I have not seen from them yet. Snarls rip through the valley, layered and furious. Something is pushing against their boundary.
I feel it then.
Four presences.
Together. Linked.
Approaching fast.
"They don't feel hostile," I say, even as my body prepares for impact. "But not welcome either."
We step outside as the first clash hits.
The wolves strike hard. Teeth and weight and momentum aimed to kill or drive off whatever dares cross the line.
They do neither.
A shield blooms into existence between bodies and fangs, appearing liquid at first, bronze light pouring outward like molten metal poured into open air. It has no fixed shape. No edge. It flexes instead, absorbing the wolves mid-leap.
They hit it and stop.
A man steps forward through the light.
He moves like water.
Each unhurried step flows into the next, controlled and deliberate, like a form practiced until thought becomes unnecessary. His hands guide the shield as if it were an extension of his body, peeling sections away, easing the wolves free one by one and placing them aside.
The shield stabilizes. Bronze turns opaque.
The wolves freeze where they are, trapped in a moment of failed violence.
Their bodies sink into the surface as if caught in thick syrup. Limbs suspended. Muscles straining. Teeth snapping inches from freedom and finding none.
The wolves do not fight him.
They remain locked in place, portions of the bronze clinging to their fur, rooting them where they stand or lie.
Marcus exhales once, sharp. "Shield type," he mutters. "Aggressive."
I raise my hand.
The afterimages answer instantly.
Gold and silver fracture outward from my body, shapes forming faster than thought, moving with intent sharpened by threat. They streak toward the intruders, reality bending around their passage.
Then I see it.
The aura.
Gold and silver, yes.
Different cadence. Different pull.
My breath catches.
An afterimage reaches the man just as another layer of bronze surges up in response. The moment it makes contact, the shield fractures.
Bronze cracks.
Light splinters.
"Stop," I shout.
The word hits the valley and comes back to me multiplied, echoing off stone and lake and trees.
The afterimage freezes mid-strike.
Gold and silver bleed from its edges, dissolving into dust that reverses direction and pours back into me. The remaining projections follow, collapsing inward, leaving the air abruptly empty.
The man lowers his hands slowly.
He staggers, clutching his chest, breath pulled tight, as if the shield took more from him than it showed, or as if he had just understood how close he came to dying.
Four figures stand where the trees give way to the clearing.
A woman steps forward first. Her presence is soft, but not weak. Her gaze lands on the trapped wolves and something in her expression tightens with empathy rather than fear.
Another kneels immediately, already assessing injuries that are not visible. Her hands hover, practical, ready.
A third hums under her breath, the sound vibrating faintly through the air, brushing against my senses like a tuning fork testing resonance.
The last remains where he is, shoulders squared, heat rolling off him in controlled aggression, eyes never leaving me.
Marcus shifts beside me. "They followed the same pull we did," he says quietly.
"I know," I answer.
The wolves stop struggling.
Their attention turns inward.
Toward me.
Toward the four.
Toward the bond that should not exist and yet does.
The man with the shield finally speaks.
He straightens with effort, one hand still pressed to his chest, the other rising slowly, palm open as the bronze light drains from his skin.
"We were careful," he says in a single breath, words running together. "We hid first, waited until it was safe to move, made sure no one followed us."
I meet his gaze.
"I know," I say.
Because I can feel the months behind them. Nearly a year of running. Of waiting. Of silence sharpened into instinct. The way they learned to breathe without being heard.
And beneath it all, the thread that led them here.
The one only the 28 can feel.
The valley holds its breath.
And for the first time since we arrived, the wolves do not guard outward.
They turn inward instead.
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We enter the cabin without ceremony.
I go in first.
Three afterimages stand beside the babies, positioned like sentinels rather than projections. They do not move. They do not flicker. Gold and silver hold steady around Ethan and Elara as if the air itself has learned where it is allowed to exist.
The four stop at the threshold.
I feel it before I turn. The way attention tightens. The way breath is caught and not released.
I lift my hand and pull the afterimages back.
They do not resist. They fold inward smoothly, dissolving into light that settles beneath my skin. The room feels instantly larger. Less guarded. Not safer. Just quieter.
Marcus steps in last and closes the door behind him.
Ethan and Elara are awake.
Eleven months old now. Alert. Still silent.
They sit on the lounge cushions, close together, bodies angled toward one another as if balance matters more than space. Their eyes track movement with unsettling focus. Glyphs shift slowly within their pupils, red and blue strands drifting through their hair like living threads responding to something beneath the surface.
The four freeze.
I sit down beside the them. Elara moves immediately, pressing herself into my side, face tucked beneath my arm as if she has suddenly remembered the concept of strangers.
"Mommy," she says softly.
A chair relocates, snapping backward across the room and collide with the wall hard enough to crack the plaster.
I do not react.
Ethan shifts, peering around Elara's shoulder. His gaze locks onto Marcus as he straightens near the counter.
"Mar," Ethan says.
He pauses, searching.
"Bot'al"
A cup on the table tips and rolls onto its side. It does not shatter. It does not jump. It simply falls, nudged by a force that never touches it.
Marcus reaches over and sets it upright without comment.
"Careful," he says mildly and hands him the bottle.
To the four, the room feels like it has just exhaled.
To us, this is normal.
I glance up at them. "You can sit."
The words are casual. Almost dismissive. As if nothing in this room should require permission.
They hesitate.
One of them reaches for a chair and misjudges the distance, fingers closing on empty air. The chair skids backward with a sharp scrape before he catches it, breath held tight.
Another drags a chair closer, slower this time, careful not to let it scrape again.
They sit at last, movements stiff and deliberate, never breaking eye contact with the babies.
I rest my hand lightly against Ethan's back. His strands settle. Elara peeks out from beneath my arm, one eye visible, watching the strangers with quiet assessment rather than fear.
"Names," I say. "And tell me if you understand what you felt outside. The link. Between you and us."
No one answers immediately.
Then the woman who stepped forward earlier does.
She inclines her head slightly, respectful without submission.
"I'm Rachel," she says. Her voice is gentle, steady. "I mend what breaks on the inside. Spiritual wounds. Fractures that do not bleed."
She gestures softly to the others.
"Leah," she continues. "She works with the body. Bones. Flesh. Damage that refuses to heal correctly."
Leah nods once, practical and unadorned.
"Sarah," Rachel says. "She carries sound. Not noise. Resonance. She amplifies what already exists."
Sarah offers a small smile, energy contained but bright.
"And Victor," Rachel finishes. "He shields. He counters. He absorbs what would otherwise destroy."
Victor's gaze flicks briefly to the babies. Then back to me.
"We understand the link," Rachel says. "We followed it. Same as you did once. Same as the others."
I study them for a moment longer.
Then I nod.
"Good," I say. "Because that means you understand this too."
I glance down at Ethan and Elara.
They remain silent.
The room remains intact.
"And that," I add, "is why you're still standing."
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Supper is served without comment.
They eat like people who have learned not to expect a second plate. There is no rush, only intent. Every movement is efficient. No one speaks until the last bowl is empty and the fire settles into a steady, low burn.
The babies fall asleep shortly after. Their silence returns the room to something manageable. Whatever rule they enforce has done its work.
We gather in the lounge.
Marcus moves quietly, setting a kettle on the stove, grinding beans by feel. When he hands me a cup, his fingers brush mine briefly. Our eyes meet. I catch the meaning behind it.
I take a sip, then look at the four across from us.
"Why were you hiding?" I ask. My tone stays even. Direct, without edge.
They exchange glances.
Rachel goes first.
She wraps both hands around her mug, thumbs rubbing the rim as if checking it is real.
"I was on my way to work," she says. "Same route I take every morning. A van pulled up beside me. Too close for comfort."
Her voice stays steady. Her breathing does not.
"They moved fast. I didn't." She pauses. "But the man who owns the shop on the corner did. He knows me. Knows my name."
She swallows.
"He came out with a shotgun. Fired once. Hit one of them. The others ran."
The fire crackles softly.
"They didn't come back," Rachel finishes. "I didn't go back either."
Leah lets out a slow breath.
"I work with horses," she says. "Rehab mostly."
Her hands move as she talks, broad and sure.
"I was in the round pen when they showed up. Three men. The horses noticed before I did."
A brief smile crosses her face. It does not stay.
"They broke the fence. Stampeded straight through them. One of the men didn't get up."
Marcus shifts near the fire.
"I ran," Leah says. "Didn't look back."
No one asks what happened to the others.
Marcus stands and gathers the empty mugs, moving to the sink without hurry. The sound of water fills the pause.
Sarah speaks next.
Her voice is quiet, nearly lost beneath the fire.
"I study physics," she says. "Second year. I felt watched walking back to my dorm. Two separate shadows."
Her eyes stay on her cup.
"I moved toward people. Joined a group I recognized. Stayed with them until it felt safe to leave."
Her fingers curl around the handle.
"I never went back to campus."
Victor waits until she finishes.
"They caught me," he says.
Every head lifts.
"I was tired. Overconfident." He flexes one hand without thinking. "They hit me hard. Took me while I was down."
His jaw tightens.
"I waited until they stopped for gas. Put the shield up inside the vehicle. Froze them where they sat."
He breathes out slowly.
"I got away."
Rachel speaks again, her voice low.
"We all felt it," she says. "The wrongness. The way their presence pressed in, like they already knew where we belonged."
Leah exhales through her nose. "We come from small sects. Quiet ones. We'd heard your stories. Everyone had."
Sarah nods. "Once they came for us, that was it. Jobs. Homes. Routines." Her fingers tighten around her cup. "You don't go back after that."
Rachel finishes it, simply.
"We understood what it meant," she says. "Whatever lives we had before, we had to let them go. There wasn't a version of the world anymore where we stayed ordinary."
Silence settles.
No one argues.
Because they already know it's true.
Victor looks at me.
"It wasn't until we heard you'd vanished with the babies that we leaned into it fully. The pull."
Something tightens in my chest.
Sarah glances at Leah. "I met her in a bus station bathroom. We both felt it at the same time."
Leah smiles faintly. "We stayed together after that. Felt Victor at a food stall a few towns over. We introduced ourselves, and didn't separate again."
Victor nods. "We found Rachel at a shelter. She was keeping a low profile."
Rachel shrugs. "I felt them before I saw them walk through the door."
Victor's voice drops.
"When they had me," he says, "I heard them talking. About extraction. About forcing what we are into stones."
The fire pops.
"Their leader stopped it. Said it was risky. That things could go wrong."
My grip tightens around the cup.
"He said a name," Victor finishes. "Thornton."
The fire settles.
Outside, the wolves remain.
And inside, every piece finally fits.
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Marcus and I step outside without discussing it.
The night air is cool, the valley hushed in the way that feels deliberate rather than empty. The wolves have settled again, shapes moving slowly at the edge of sight.
"This changes things," Marcus says.
"It does," I agree. "And I need to speak to him directly."
He nods once. No questions.
I pull my phone from my pocket and move a few steps away, enough space to breathe without being watched. The screen lights up as I dial. It does not ring long.
He answers immediately.
"Hi, love," I say.
There is a sound on the other end that pulls the ground out from under me.
A sharp breath. Then another. Then nothing but crying.
I picture it without trying. Him dropping where he stands, knees hitting the floor, hands braced against something solid so he does not come apart completely. I do not interrupt. I do not rush him.
I wait.
Minutes pass.
When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse, fragile around the edges.
"Hi, my love."
I close my eyes.
"Are you okay to talk?" I ask gently.
"Mmm," he murmurs. Agreement without words.
"I'm okay," I tell him. "The babies are okay. They've grown so much, Seth. You wouldn't believe it."
I hear his breath hitch again, quieter this time.
"They're beautiful," I continue. "I'll send you pictures after. I talk to them about you all the time. Every day."
I smile faintly.
"I show them your picture. And when they're naughty, I hold it up and tell them daddy is watching."
A sound escapes him. Half laugh, half sob.
"I knew it," he says softly.
We talk for a long time after that.
About small things. About nothing. About everything that matters and nothing that needs fixing. About how the valley looks in the mornings. About how our house feels empty without us. About the way love stretches instead of thinning when distance is forced into it.
An hour passes without either of us noticing.
Eventually, I clear my throat.
"There's something else," I say.
I feel him steady on the other end.
"Okay."
"Four people found me," I tell him. "They're part of the 28. They've been hunted. Each of them."
I explain what they endured. The van. The horses. The campus. The capture.
"And they heard a name," I finish. "Thornton."
There is a pause.
Then his voice changes. Focused. Sharp.
"I want men in Thornton," I say. "Quiet ones. I want to know what's happening there. I want updates. Constant ones."
"I'll go myself," Seth replies. "With the team. Gabriel too."
I exhale slowly. "Be careful."
"I always am," he says. "Especially now."
We say our goodbyes softly. Slowly. Like people who have learned how easily calls can be cut short.
I head back toward the cabin.
Marcus is inside, already setting up sleeping spaces for the four. Blankets laid out with thought rather than haste.
I pull him into the kitchen.
"Seth is sending people to Thornton," I say. "He's going too. Gabriel's with them."
Marcus nods. "Good."
I sleep lightly.
The phone rings before dawn.
I answer blind.
"What?" I snap, already sitting up. "Who? Why?"
"Easy," Seth says, and he is laughing.
I am awake instantly.
"We're leaving for Thornton now," he continues. "Should be there in half a day."
"You couldn't wait," I mutter.
"Couldn't," he agrees. "I'll call later. I want to see the babies. Properly."
"You will," I say. "Now let me sleep a little longer."
He laughs again, softer this time.
I end the call and lie back down.
The valley remains quiet.
For now.
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Four hours later, I am still waiting for Seth's call.
The screen lights up.
Alec.
My stomach tightens.
Why Alec? Why not Seth?
I answer.
Gunshots tear through the line.
"Max," Jamey pants. "It's me."
I am on my feet instantly.
"Jamey, why are you calling from Alec's phone?" I say. "Where's Seth?"
There is movement on the other end. Running. Shouting. Metal striking metal.
"Alec's fighting alongside Seth," Jamey says, breathless. "We got here faster than planned. Took the train."
More gunfire.
"We found them at a car dump site," he continues. "Scrap everywhere. Burnt out frames. Real welcoming atmosphere."
Marcus is beside me now. I pull him close without thinking.
"Max," Jamey says, and his voice drops. "I'm scared."
My grip tightens.
"There are…" He cuts off as shots erupt again.
The line crackles.
When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. Strained.
"There are about thirty to forty of them here. And that's bad." He swallows. "What's worse is they've got seven of our kind. You know. Gold and silver aura people. The shiny collector's edition."
Even now, he tries.
"They're unconscious," he continues. "Nothing wakes them. Shaking. Calling. Slapping. Trust me, I tried."
A scream cuts through the line.
"Gabriel's called for backup," Jamey says quickly. "Three hours out. Max, these guys don't look like they've got three hours left in them."
I hear boots pounding. Someone shouting orders.
Then Seth's voice cuts through everything.
"Adrian, Jamey. Drag them to the center."
Static. Chaos.
"Claire, Hannah. Pick up the weapons. Everything on the ground."
Jamey is shouting now, words lost in motion.
Then Seth again, closer to the phone.
"Hi honey."
My breath stutters.
"We arrived earlier than expected."
"Yeah," I say. "I know. Jamey filled me in."
Silence.
I know that silence. Calculating. Compartmentalizing. Holding a hundred threads at once.
"About the call earlier," he starts.
"It's okay," I interrupt gently. "Later. When things settle. I'll text you when they wake."
Another pause.
"All right," he says softly.
I end the call.
Marcus is watching me. So are the others.
"They found them," I say. "Thornton was real."
No one speaks.
As promised, two hours later, Seth calls again.
The babies are sitting side by side on the floor, alert and curious. Too awake for comfort.
Ethan points at the screen.
"Daddy," he murmurs, delighted.
The effect is immediate.
The cabin shudders violently. The walls groan. Everything not anchored slides.
Victor is thrown clean out of his chair.
Leah lands on top of Sarah with a startled curse.
Rachel and Marcus are outside picking vegetables.
Lucky them.
"Elara," I say sharply.
She squeals and presses against Ethan.
The cabin lurches again. Shelves rattle. The floor shifts beneath us like it is trying to realign.
"Babies," I say firmly. "No talking."
They quiet at once.
I turn the tablet so Seth can see them, then explain quickly why silence matters.
His face fills the screen. He is smiling. Crying. Both at once.
He talks to them softly. Carefully. They listen with the solemn attention only babies with too much power can manage.
The call lasts a while.
I step away briefly. When I return, Rachel and Marcus are preparing supper. The house smells like warmth and earth.
The babies are already drifting off when I sit beside them again.
On the screen, Seth is still watching. His eyes shine.
"How are things," I ask quietly.
"We're back at the Obsidian Forum," he says. "We've got the captors. The seven are receiving aid."
A scream echoes behind him.
People scatter in the background.
Seth turns his head.
Then he blinks.
"Oh my bloody hell."
The call cuts.
I stare at the dark screen.
The valley stays silent.
And I know, with a certainty that settles deep in my bones, that whatever just woke up is not finished with us yet.
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This is where the story turns outward again.
The valley was never meant to be permanent.
The quiet was never meant to last.
What was taken has been found.
What was hidden has been seen.
And what was sleeping has begun to answer.
Thornton is no longer a name.
It is a location.
And something there has already woken up.
Chapter 27 will deal with the cost of moving too late.