Vale woke before dawn.
Not from sound, but from awareness.
The camp was quiet—embers dim, air cool and damp with early mist—but something within her was alert, attentive in a way she hadn't felt in years. Not alarmed. Not defensive.
Aware.
She sat up slowly, listening.
Nothing was wrong.
That unsettled her more than any threat.
She moved away from the sleeping shelters, drawn toward the treeline where the world still belonged to shadow and birdsong. The earth was cold beneath her bare feet, grounding.
"You're up early."
The voice came from behind her—not sharp, not claiming.
Vale turned.
Theron Blackwood stood a short distance away, cloak loose over his shoulders, dark hair pulled back carelessly. He looked as though he hadn't slept either.
"I didn't wake you, did I?" she asked.
"No," he said. "I was already awake."
Silence settled between them, not uncomfortable, but weighted.
The moon lingered low in the sky, pale and thin. Vale felt its pull—soft, familiar, different here. Less demanding.
Theron followed her gaze. "It's quieter under this sky."
"It is," she agreed.
He didn't ask why she was awake. Didn't press.
Vale inhaled, then spoke before she could reconsider. "Do you ever feel something before it happens?"
Theron's attention sharpened—not predatory, but focused. "Often."
She hesitated. "I don't know what this is."
He didn't pretend not to understand. "Then you don't need to name it."
The words settled gently, like a promise he wasn't asking her to keep.
Vale's fingers curled at her side. The sensation inside her shifted—recognition brushing against fear.
In her first pack, feelings had always come with expectation. With obligation. With consequence.
This did not.
She took a step back, instinctively creating space.
Theron didn't move to close it.
"That matters," she said quietly.
"I know."
They stood there as dawn began to thin the darkness, the world slowly taking shape around them. Birds stirred. Somewhere deeper in the forest, a wolf called—low, content.
Vale realized then what frightened her most.
The pull she felt wasn't demanding anything.
It was waiting.
Later that morning, the camp stirred to life. Vale helped prepare breakfast, movements steady, mind restless. She felt Theron's presence at the edge of her awareness—not watching, not tracking.
Existing.
At one point, a disagreement flared between two patrol leaders over territory boundaries. Voices rose, tension threading sharp and fast.
Theron stepped in—not with force, but clarity.
"You're both right," he said calmly. "And you're both missing the larger picture."
They quieted instantly.
Vale watched, fascinated. Not because of the authority—but because of how lightly he wore it.
After the meeting dispersed, she found herself beside him again.
"You don't rule the way they did," she said.
Theron met her gaze. "I don't believe fear makes loyalty last."
Her chest tightened.
"That belief costs you," she said.
"Yes," he agreed. "It does."
He didn't say more.
He didn't need to.
As the day wore on, Vale felt it again—that subtle alignment, as if her steps matched the rhythm of something larger. When she turned, Theron was often there—not close, but near enough.
Never imposing.
By evening, she understood something she hadn't been ready to admit before.
If this was a bond—
It was not a chain.
It was an invitation.
And for the first time in her life, Vale Ashryn was allowed to decide whether to answer it.