Morning light stretched pale and sharp across the Libby valley when the crow landed on Thane’s porch rail. Its talons clicked against the wood, wings shifting once before it gave a single rasping call and dropped a strip of torn canvas at his feet. The note smelled faintly of pine and river water — and of Sable’s pack. He unrolled it carefully.
River wheel stopped. Food cold-boxes dying. Sable ask help. — Rime.
Thane handed it to Mark without a word. The older wolf scanned the uneven scrawl, then raised a brow. “Sounds like a small hydro turbine,” he said. “They probably use it to keep their meat stores cool. If it’s down, they’ll start losing food fast.”
Gabriel leaned against the porch post, tail flicking lazily. “Guess we’re headed north then, huh? About time we got out of town. I’m starting to miss the smell of pine sap and wet dirt.”
“Pack light,” Thane said, his tone making the decision official. “We leave at sunrise.”
The next day broke cold and clear. They left the town behind quietly — barepaws carrying them down the dirt road until it faded into game trails and silence. The forest grew thicker by the mile. Sunlight came in shards through the branches, catching on their fur in gold streaks. Every scent was clean — loam, moss, old rain. For the first time in months, none of them heard the hum of generators or the hiss of running power lines.
Gabriel was the first to break the quiet. “You notice how the air tastes better out here?” he said. “Like it’s got more oxygen and less stupid.”
Mark gave a low chuckle. “Don’t jinx it. Last time you said that, we found that cougar den full of barbed wire.”
“Cougar’s fault, not mine.”
“Still blame you.”
Thane ignored the banter, eyes sweeping ahead. They were getting close. He could smell campfire smoke and hear faint, uneven rhythms — voices, tools, water running too fast over stone.
They crested a hill and saw it — the northern camp. Dozens of wolves moving through a clearing cut into the forest’s spine, smoke rising from ringed fire pits, hides stretched between trees for shelter. It was raw and alive, pulsing with instinct.
But the moment the Libby wolves stepped out of the brush, every eye turned toward them.
A ripple of unease passed through the camp. Some of the ferals dipped their heads in acknowledgment. Others didn’t. A young male with white-specked gray fur stepped forward, shoulders tense.
“You live with humans,” he said, the words thick but clear. “Sleep near their walls. You not like us.”
Thane stopped a few paces away, tall and unflinching. “We protect what we claim,” he said. “Same as you.”
The young wolf bared his teeth. “You forget the wild.”
Before Thane could speak, a voice cut through the camp like thunder wrapped in silk. “Enough.”
Sable stepped from the shadows — tall, white-furred, bright-eyed, her presence steady and commanding. Her fur caught the light like snow under sunrise. The air seemed to still around her.
She closed the distance with the grace of a predator who never forgot she could kill. “You forget respect,” she told the younger wolf. “He did not lose wild. He learned how to control it.”
The challenger lowered his head. “Yes, Alpha.”
Sable’s gaze softened when she turned to Thane. “Apologies,” she said. “Some of them fear what they don’t yet understand.”
“Understand later,” Gabriel muttered. “We’re here to work.”
Sable’s mouth twitched — just enough to betray amusement. “Follow me.”
They passed through the camp and down a narrow trail to the river’s edge. A small hydro turbine sat half-submerged in the current, its housing covered in grime and tangled weeds. A rusted pipe fed water toward a wooden shed — the generator building.
Mark crouched beside it immediately. “Old co-op rig,” he murmured, wiping grime from the casing. “Still got her bones. You said it stopped recently?”
Sable nodded. “Two nights ago. It groaned and stopped. Lights went dark. Cool-boxes warm now.”
“Then it’s a jam,” Mark said. “Probably intake clogged.”
Gabriel was already knee-deep in the river, clearing branches from the grate with sharp flicks of his claws. “You weren’t kidding,” he called. “Whole tree branch wedged in here.”
Thane joined him in the water. The current surged around his legs, cold enough to bite, but he set his claws against the axle and twisted hard. The turbine shrieked once, then turned with a wet, satisfying grind.
Mark checked the shaft from the bank. “Movement’s clean. I’ll check the regulator and the belt.” He disappeared into the shed, muttering to himself. “Let’s see if you’ve still got a pulse, old girl.”
The ferals had gathered on the bank now — dozens of them, watching in silence. The sound of the turbine slowly rose from groan to hum, deepening as the bearings cleared. The first flicker of light came from the shed window — weak but unmistakable.
When the coolers in the main longhouse clicked on again, a chorus of gasps rippled through the onlookers. One pup turned in a tight excited circle. “River sings again!”
Sable stood near the edge, her reflection trembling in the current. “You make it live,” she said quietly.
Thane shook water from his arms. “No,” he said. “You kept it alive. We just reminded it how to move.”
That earned him a rare smile.
By nightfall, the camp was bright again. Lanterns burned steady light instead of flickering flame. Wolves gathered near the main fire, voices raised in laughter that hadn’t been heard there in days. Gabriel showed a curious young male how to flick the toggle on a flashlight, pretending it was magic. The wolf yipped and nearly dropped it when the beam hit a tree.
“It’s captured lightning,” Gabriel said, grinning. “Comes in handy after dark.”
The wolf handed it back reverently. “Lightning friend of yours?”
“Sometimes,” Gabriel said. “Depends on how much coffee I’ve had.”
Mark sat nearby, cleaning the turbine grease off his hands with a rag. Two of the older ferals sat watching him work, fascinated. One pointed at the tools laid neatly beside him. “You make machines bow.”
Mark shrugged. “Nah. Just convince them to cooperate.”
Across the fire, a scarred she-wolf lifted her voice. “You fix river. Good. But you fix humans too. Teach them things. Why?”
Her words brought the laughter down to a hush. A dozen eyes turned toward the Libby wolves again.
Thane didn’t rise, didn’t bristle. He just met her stare evenly. “Because if we don’t teach them,” he said, “they’ll lose everything they still know. And when they fall, we fall with them.”
The scarred wolf’s hackles twitched. “Humans cause fall.”
Sable’s voice silenced the air again. “And now they climb. With help.” She looked around the circle, eyes glinting orange in the firelight. “Fear will not rebuild this world. Cooperation will. You may not like them — but you will learn from them. As they learn from us.”
The scarred wolf lowered her head. “Yes, Alpha.”
Thane met Sable’s eyes across the fire. She gave him a slow nod — not thanks, but acknowledgment.
The rest of the night passed in comfort and sound. Wolves sang, the river hummed, and the lights stayed on. Gabriel traded jokes with a group of younger ferals. Mark found himself surrounded by curious onlookers wanting to know how the “light wheel” made food cold. Even the air felt easier.
When the fire burned low, Thane stood near the river again. The turbine hummed steadily, its vibration faint through the stones under his paws. Sable joined him, quiet as snowfall.
“You fixed more than metal today,” she said softly.
He watched the reflections of the campfires shimmer across her white fur. “You’ve built something strong here,” he said. “We just made sure you can keep it.”
She nodded once. “You will come north again.”
Thane gave a small, certain nod. “Count on it.”
The next morning, the Libby wolves set out early. The forest swallowed them as they moved south again, back toward the valley. Behind them, faint but steady, the hum of the river wheel followed — a living sound, half water and half machine, carrying the voice of both worlds working together.