The forest had gone still in the days after the battle.
No wind, no shouting, no gunfire — just the hush that comes when even the trees are tired.
Libby slept.
The prisoners worked under guard during daylight hours, rebuilding bridges and stacking timber for the winter to come. At night, the valley smelled of smoke and sap and the faint metallic tang of cooling tools.
Most nights, Thane sat alone outside the walls — not as the town’s protector, but as something older. Watching. Listening. Thinking.
This night, he wasn’t alone.
He caught her scent before he saw her — earth, rain, the faint wild musk that seemed to follow Sable wherever she went. She sat on a fallen pine near the overlook above the river, her silver-gray fur catching the moonlight in broken strands. Her eyes tracked the water below, patient and unfocused, like she wasn’t watching anything in particular — just remembering.
Thane approached quietly, claws scraping rock just enough to announce his presence.
Sable didn’t startle. She just said, “I thought you’d come.”
He stopped beside the log, folded his arms. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“No one can,” she murmured. “The world is too loud when it’s this quiet.”
For a long time, they said nothing. The river moved far below, whispering against the stones. A nightbird called somewhere out past the ridge. The rest of the world was wrapped in a hush that wasn’t peace so much as aftermath.
Sable finally spoke again, voice soft and rough. “We lost three,” she said. “Good wolves. One young. They fought like they thought I was watching.”
“I was,” Thane said simply.
Her mouth curved — not a smile, exactly, but something close. “You see everything, don’t you?”
“Not everything. Just enough to know when to look.”
Sable nodded slowly. “Then you know why I stayed.”
He did. The ferals could’ve gone back north days ago. But Sable lingered — not for power, not for politics, but because she needed to make sure the bond between her pack and Libby was real. She’d risked everything trusting humans and tame wolves alike, and she wasn’t ready to walk away from that gamble.
“The town’s different now,” Thane said. “They see you as family.”
Sable looked up at the stars. “Family’s a heavy word.”
“Yeah,” Thane said. “So is Alpha.”
That made her laugh — a low, rumbling thing that came from deep in her chest. “You sound like one who knows.”
He didn’t answer. He just eased down beside her on the fallen log, elbows on his knees, claws tracing idle lines in the bark. For a while, neither of them spoke. The kind of silence that settles only when two people have run out of walls to hide behind.
Finally, Sable said, “It’s strange. After the fight, I didn’t know what to do with my hands. No weapons. No claws. Just… stillness.”
Thane nodded, slow. “Stillness is harder than war.”
“Sometimes,” she agreed. “At least in war, you know where to put the pain.”
She looked at him then, eyes like moonlit water. “Do you ever… just want to stop being the one who has to hold it all together?”
Thane let out a breath that was almost a growl. “Every day.”
The words hung between them — heavier than any confession.
Sable shifted a little closer, the movement unhurried, instinctual. “My wolves need me strong,” she said. “But sometimes I think what they really need is someone who remembers how to feel.”
Thane looked at her, brow furrowed, but she didn’t look away. She just leaned in until their shoulders brushed — a quiet, animal gesture of contact, grounding, truth.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just breathed.
Her fur was cool where it met his, then warm, and the small tremor in her exhale wasn’t fear. It was relief. The kind that comes from knowing someone else understands what it costs to lead.
They sat that way for a long while — two alphas, not speaking, not performing, simply being. The moon rose higher, throwing silver across the river, and somewhere in the trees a wolf from her pack howled once, long and low — a sound of mourning and life intertwined.
Sable’s hand found his forearm, claws careful not to break the skin. “We fight different wars, you and I,” she said quietly. “But tonight, maybe we can lay down the flags.”
Thane turned his hand over, just enough that his claws brushed hers in answer. “No flags here,” he said. “Just pack.”
That word — pack — softened her whole posture. She leaned against him fully then, head resting near his shoulder. Not dominance, not submission. Just trust.
The forest seemed to breathe with them.
They stayed that way until dawn threatened the horizon. When the first birds started to sing, Sable stirred, stretching. “The world’s going to wake up soon,” she murmured.
Thane nodded, rising beside her. “Then we’d better be ready to hold it up again.”
Sable smiled, faint and tired but real. “Together, then.”
He met her eyes. “Together.”
When they walked back toward Libby, side by side, their shadows merged with the trees — the line between feral and civilized fading for just one beautiful moment, replaced by something older and stronger: kinship.