Author: Thane Page 7 of 9

The dawn came soft and cold, dripping through the pines in silver streaks. The forest around the cabin still slept—no wind, no birds yet brave enough to break the hush. Inside, the den was quiet save for the occasional creak of wood and the slow breathing of wolves who’d stayed up too late laughing.

Gabriel stumbled into the kitchen wearing a shirt that had lost an argument with sleep. His fur stuck out in every direction, and his hair was a wild black halo. He yawned, scratched his neck, and blinked at the light spilling in from the porch window.

“Who left the sun on?” he muttered.

Thane was only slightly more awake. He held a mug of Diet Mountain Dew and leaned against the counter like gravity owed him an apology. His ears twitched once—then again.

“Do you hear that?” he asked.

Gabriel squinted. “Hear what?”

“Breathing,” Thane said. “Outside.”

Both of them turned toward the door.

Beyond the porch, at the edge of the clearing, a hulking shadow stood absolutely still, haloed by morning mist. The light caught a pair of pale blue eyes—bright, expectant, and very, very awake.

Holt.

The massive feral’s tail wagged once. Then twice. Then violently enough to rustle leaves.

Gabriel’s voice came out a croak. “No way.”

Thane sighed. “He didn’t even sleep, did he?”

“Thane,” Gabriel whispered. “It’s six a.m.”

Thane took a sip of his drink, considering the size of the wolf waiting outside. “Are you going to tell him no?”

Holt, catching sight of movement on the porch, bounded forward in an explosion of dirt and enthusiasm. “Morning!!” he barked. “Learn now?”

Gabriel blinked at him. “You… do know the sun just clocked in, right?”

Holt’s grin could’ve powered the solar array. “Sun up. Holt up. Learn time.”

Thane leaned against the railing, smirking. “Gabriel, when a refrigerator with fur shows up demanding guitar lessons, you oblige.”

“Fine,” Gabriel said. “But if he breaks a string, you’re paying for it.”

“Noted.”

Thane opened the door and stepped aside with mock ceremony. “Welcome back, maestro.”

Holt bounded inside like a storm in fur. The floorboards complained, the lamp rattled, and Mark—poor, unsuspecting Mark—stepped out of the hallway with a half-filled mug of coffee just in time to meet him.

The sight of a six-foot-seven wolf barreling through the living room at sunrise made Mark’s fur puff so fast he looked like a porcupine. “What in—?!”

Holt skidded to a stop, beaming. “Learn now!” He lifted Gabriel’s guitar in both paws like an offering to the gods. “Holt ready!”

Mark blinked once. Then again. “I need stronger tea.”

Gabriel groaned but couldn’t help smiling. “Alright, alright, alright. Sit down, you caffeinated mountain.”

Holt dropped into a cross-legged sit so fast the floor thumped. His claws drummed against his thighs as he waited, tail swishing furrows into the rug.

Gabriel strummed a lazy chord, rubbed his eyes, and said, “Okay, remember what I showed you yesterday?”

“Yes,” Holt said instantly.

“Show me.”

Holt took the guitar like it was made of glass, positioned his paws, and—miraculously—hit the first two chords nearly perfect. His claws brushed, not slammed, the strings. The sound that filled the den was warm, smooth, almost meditative.

Gabriel sat up straighter. “Well I’ll be damned.”

“Better,” Holt said proudly. “No buzz. No break sound.”

Mark leaned against the doorframe, mug forgotten. “You realize this means he practiced.”

Thane chuckled from the porch doorway. “When?”

“Maybe all night,” Mark said.

Gabriel grinned. “The world’s first feral insomniac musician. We’ve created a monster.”

But Holt wasn’t listening. He was watching the fretboard with absolute focus, playing the little pattern again and again until each note sounded true. Then, without a word, he stopped. His ears tilted, his gaze went far away. And then he did something no one expected.

He started to sing.

The voice came rough and low, like gravel rolled through honey. The words were simple—half-English, half-feral—but the meaning was clear enough to still the room.

“Dark wolf teach light sound,
make stone heart warm.
Show claws how sing,
make growl into song.
Alpha music-man,
bring sky down soft—
when Holt play, Holt no fight.
Holt feel… right.”

Gabriel froze mid-breath. Thane’s eyes flicked from Holt to him, then back again. Mark’s jaw worked once before he remembered how to close it.

The song wasn’t perfect. Some syllables tangled. Some notes wavered. But the feeling—it hit like sunrise. From a wolf whose paws could crush a man’s head, came a melody about peace.

When Holt stopped, the silence felt alive. He looked up, uncertain. “That… bad?” he asked softly.

Gabriel swallowed hard. “No,” he said. “That was… gods, Holt, that was beautiful.”

Holt tilted his head, trying to read sincerity the way wolves did—through scent, breath, heartbeat. Whatever he found on Gabriel’s face made his tail thump against the rug like a drumbeat of pride.

“Made it up,” Holt said. “Like Gabriel do. Feel words. Sing them.”

Mark let out a low whistle. “I take it back. He’s not a monster. He’s a prodigy.”

Holt puffed his chest. “Prodigy strong word. Holt like strong word.”

Gabriel laughed, and the sound broke the spell in the best way. “Oh, you’re keeping that title now, huh?”

Holt nodded solemnly. “Holt Prodigy.”

“Okay, Prodigy,” Gabriel said. “Let’s clean up your phrasing.”

They spent the next hour working through chords and breath, laughter weaving between notes as Gabriel guided Holt’s massive paws over the frets, showing him how to shift between shapes. Every time Holt missed a note, he growled at himself. Every time he nailed one, he looked at Gabriel for approval like a kid who’d just built his first campfire.

Mark eventually retreated to the kitchen, muttering something about “breakfast before I weep.” Thane disappeared for a while—no one really noticed when. They were too busy laughing at Holt’s serious concentration and the soft “hrrf!” noises he made when he finally mastered a tricky change.

By late morning, sunlight filled the cabin in golden stripes. Gabriel set the guitar aside and stretched, cracking his back. “Alright, maestro, that’s enough for today.”

Holt’s ears flattened. “No enough.”

“Hey,” Gabriel said gently. “You’re getting good. Rest your paws.”

Holt frowned at the guitar. “Need own,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” Gabriel said, glancing at the door. “You’re not wrong.”

Right on cue, the hinges creaked and Thane stepped back in, carrying something wrapped in a threadbare blanket. He set it down in front of Holt and peeled back the cloth.

Underneath lay a scarred, sun-faded acoustic guitar. The wood was scratched and the bridge a little chipped, but the strings were fresh and the frets gleamed clean.

“Found this in town,” Thane said. “Old piece. Plays fine.”

Holt stared. His mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again. “For… Holt?”

Thane nodded. “If you’re gonna learn, you’ll need your own. Practice every day.”

The big wolf made a strangled noise somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. He reached out as if afraid it might vanish, then pressed his paw flat over the soundboard.

“Mine?” he whispered.

“Yours,” Thane said.

The hug came before anyone could react.

Holt moved with terrifying speed—one second kneeling, the next wrapping Thane in an embrace that could have bent rebar. Air fled Thane’s lungs in an undignified grunt. There was a pop.

“Ribs,” Thane wheezed. “Ribs, Holt—”

Holt released him instantly, horrified. “Sorry! Sorry sorry sorry!”

Thane chuckled through the pain, rubbing his side. “Guess I deserved that. Never give a thank-you to a wolf built like a tank.”

Holt’s ears drooped. “Hurt Alpha?”

“I’ll live,” Thane said, voice gravel-soft. “Just don’t make it a habit.”

Gabriel was doubled over laughing. “You just got hugged into a medical report.”

Mark emerged from the kitchen, blinking. “Do I want to know?”

“No,” Thane said.

Holt held the guitar close to his chest, tail wagging so hard it stirred dust. “Thank you. Holt play. Holt promise.”

“I know you will,” Thane said. “Just… maybe outside for the first few tries. Less furniture risk.”

Holt nodded, still clutching the instrument like it was made of stars. “Holt no break. Holt learn. Holt play song for all pack.”

Gabriel grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

As the day stretched on, the cabin filled again with music—rough and simple, full of mistakes and laughter. Holt’s claws found rhythm, his voice followed, and the forest outside caught the sound, carried it like a new kind of howl—joyful, clumsy, and whole.

By evening, even Thane’s ribs hurt less.

The flatbed rolled into Libby trailing dust and the smell of old oil, its cargo lashed down in tidy stacks that made Marta clap the moment she saw them. The afternoon light slanted warm across the square; people looked up from their work, a few hands lifting in easy waves as the engine coughed and settled.

Mark hopped down first, landing soft on the cobbles. “Panels intact,” he called, patting the top frame like a favorite dog. “Inverters, charge controllers, wiring, and a box of mechanical odds and ends that’ll save us a month of cursing.”

Marta jotted as he spoke, eyes bright. “If you brought me spare breakers I’ll name a loaf of bread after you.”

“Two crates,” Mark said, deadpan. “One sourdough, one rye.”

She grinned. “Done.”

Thane climbed out of the bed and started cutting straps with clean, decisive flicks of his claws. The Northern Ferals fanned around the truck without being told—Rime and Holt shoulder-lifting panels two at a time, younger wolves ferrying coils of cable like oversized bracelets. Gabriel tossed down a battered PA head wrapped in burlap and waggled his eyebrows. Marta arched a brow.

“Festival plans?” she asked.

“Community morale enhancer,” Gabriel said. “Also known as music.”

“Then I’m doubly grateful,” Marta said, stepping aside as two ferals padded past with a stack of batteries balanced between them. “City warehouse is open—Hank’s boys cleared a bay. Mark, I want your brain on the inventory.”

“You already have it,” Mark replied, following her with a clipboard he clearly hadn’t been handed yet. “We’ll stage by system: solar, power distribution, comms, and ‘things Mark will regret not finding six months from now.’”

As they filed into the warehouse, cool air breathed out—concrete, dust, and the faint tang of old oil. Rime set a panel down with careful fingers. “Safe place,” he said, testing the floor with a tap of his claw. “Good den for hard things.”

“Exactly,” Marta said. “No rain. No curious raccoons. No ‘oops I thought this was a table’ incidents.”

Gabriel whistled innocently while setting the PA head on an actual table. The nearest feral smothered a laugh.

Holt came through the door hauling two huge 24-volt lead-acid batteries, one in each paw. A human volunteer froze mid-step to stare. “That’s… that’s not possible,” he said, half to himself.

Holt set them down gently, not even breathing hard. “Possible,” he said. “Heavy, not clever.”

“Both are useful,” Mark said, pencil behind his ear, already sketching a rough plan on the clipboard Marta had indeed produced from nowhere. “Panels in rows along the southern wall. Inverters next to breaker crates. Cables looped and tagged by gauge. Please do not coil the 10-gauge like a garden snake.”

Gabriel nudged Thane’s shoulder with his elbow as they unlashed the last strap. “He’s in his happy place.”

“He earned it,” Thane said. “We all did.”

For an hour they worked in simple rhythm: carry, place, stack, label. Humans and wolves moved around each other like they’d practiced for years. Hank wandered through at one point, counted panels, and let out a low whistle. “If raiders get ideas again,” he said, “we’ll blind them with reflected sunlight.”

“Preferably from behind a wall,” Thane replied.

When the truck bed finally showed wood, not cargo, Marta capped her pen with a satisfied pop. “If I could frame this feeling I would. Thank you. All of you.”

Rime dipped his head. “Town helped our river,” he said. “We help your sun.”

Holt wiped a smudge of grease on his fur with zero success. Gabriel pressed a rag into his paw and whispered, “Rub, then pretend it worked.”

Holt, enormous and unbothered, made two perfunctory passes and nodded solemnly. “Fixed.”

Marta squeezed Mark’s shoulder. “Get some food, then go home. You look three bolts past done.”

“Two bolts,” Mark corrected, but he smiled. “We’ll head out.”

They said their goodbyes in the square. The ferals lingered at the edge—no hurry in them, curious eyes flicking from faces to windows to the sky settling toward evening. Thane cut a glance to Gabriel; Gabriel lifted one shoulder, grin crooked. The wolves drifted after the three of them when they left town, as casual as leaves following a current.

On the forest road, a young feral trotted at Thane’s side. “We come?” he asked, not really asking.

Thane’s mouth tipped. “Looks like you already are.”

The cabin sat where pines crowded close, its roof dark with needles, its steps worn smooth by years of barepaws. The generator shed was quiet; the solar bank winked soft along the eaves. Thane pushed the door open and stood aside.

The ferals hesitated at the threshold like they were about to step onto a river. One by one, they crossed in, claws ticking on wooden floorboards, eyes everywhere. Warmth rolled out—old wood and coffee, a memory of smoke in the stone fireplace. A pot sat near the sink, a stack of tin cups beside it; a woven rug spread its reds like a low-burning ember. Two wolf-head medallions glinted briefly in the lamplight as Thane and Gabriel moved past the hooks by the door.

“This is… den,” Rime said softly. Not a question. Reverence carried in it.

“A good den,” Holt added, taking in the battered leather sofa, the shelves with their careful chaos of tools and books and coils of wire. He looked up at a framed photo hung crooked—three wolves and a mountain behind them, no date, just a memory.

Gabriel flopped on the sofa like he’d been shot, guitar already sliding into his hands. He didn’t tune it so much as nudge it into agreement, then let his claws brush the strings. The first chords rolled out warm and easy, filling the small room with something that loosened shoulders.

A laugh hiccuped from one of the younger ferals near the doorway. “Furniture is… soft,” he said, pressing both palms into the arm of a chair and then quickly pulling back as if he’d broken some rule. The chair survived. He pressed again, delighted. “Soft!”

“Don’t let them discover mattresses,” Mark said, disappearing into the kitchen and reappearing with a dented kettle. “We’ll have to pry them out with a crowbar.”

“Cloud dens,” another wolf murmured, testing the rug with his toes. “Floor is not cold. Floor is soft too.”

Gabriel shifted to a brighter pattern, a little run that danced and came back to the root like a friend returning. Holt stood motionless in the center of the room, eyes fixed on Gabriel’s hands. His ears were forward, his body suddenly still, as if movement might scare the sound away.

“You want to sit?” Thane asked him, amused, and the big wolf startled, then sank cross-legged on the rug with surprising care.

The others snickered, not unkindly—just that easy pack teasing that drifts toward whoever looks earnest. “Holt wants story-sound,” someone said.

“Holt wants learn,” another chimed.

Holt’s jaw set. “Yes,” he said simply. “I want learn.”

More laughter, sharp at the edges. “Big paws for small strings,” a young male grinned. “He break it in two shakes.”

Holt’s head snapped, the humor gone from his eyes. The room bristled; even the guitar string buzzed under Gabriel’s fingers as if catching the change. The teasing wolf took one more breath and that was the end of his good choices.

Holt moved like rockfall. One paw on the other’s throat, not crushing, but enough to stop words. The pinned wolf yelped, paws scrabbling at Holt’s wrist.

Thane was across the room before the echo faded, gravel voice so low it barely stirred the air. His paw settled on Holt’s shoulder, weight there but not force. “No one doubts you’re the strongest in this room,” he said. “With strength comes responsibility. We do not hurt our pack.”

The words landed and held. Holt’s breath came fast once, twice. His ears eased back; his claws eased away. He stood, stepped back, and put both paws open at his sides. The pinned wolf rolled to a sit, rubbing his throat, ears hot with embarrassment, pride dented but intact.

Gabriel’s voice came in dry as kindling. “Teasing a wolf bigger than a motorcycle: bold. Maybe don’t.”

Snorts of laughter circled the room, the tension evaporating as quickly as it had come. Holt looked at Gabriel, eyes still tight. “Teach?” he asked, tone back to the simple want he’d started with.

Gabriel patted the sofa cushion beside him. “C’mere, giant.”

Holt approached like it might be a trap. Gabriel turned the guitar and laid it across Holt’s thighs. It looked small there, but not ridiculous—like seeing a blacksmith hold a violin with reverence. Gabriel positioned Holt’s right paw above the strings. “Your claws are picks,” he said. “Short strokes. No hammering. Gentle. Think like you’re brushing fur, not digging.”

Holt glanced at Thane. Thane nodded once. Holt flexed his claws as if promising them they’d be delicate, then glanced back down.

“Left paw on the neck,” Gabriel went on, guiding one thick finger at a time to press in a chord shape. “Here, here, and here. Not the tips—roll them. You’re strong, so you’ll overdo it at first. Breathe. Now hit the low string…”

Holt struck too hard and winced at the twang. The room chuckled. Gabriel’s mouth curved. “Again. Like you’re afraid to be heard.”

Holt brushed. The low note bloomed warm and honest. Holt didn’t move.

“That’s it,” Gabriel said softly. “Again. Now add the next one. Slow. Let it ring.”

Holt’s tongue poked from the corner of his mouth, the rigid set of his shoulders easing by inches as a three-note pattern found itself under his paw. He tried it a second time. Cleaner. The third time, the smallest smile touched the corner of his lips—a boyish look that didn’t know his own face could make it.

Behind him, someone muttered, grudging but impressed: “Holt has soft claws.”

“Shocking development,” Mark said from the kitchen doorway, steam trailing from the kettle. “The boulder is also a harp.”

Holt flicked a look up and then resolutely back to the strings. Gabriel shifted him into a simple melody, rearranging two fingers, tapping one knuckle, telling him when to lift and when to leave it alone. The notes came halting at first, then with more confidence—something like a lullaby from a far-off place, the skeleton of a tune stepping out of fog.

When Holt finished the phrase without tripping over it, his ears shot up. “Did,” he said, quiet but fierce. “I did.”

“You did,” Gabriel said. “Now don’t stop doing. Again.”

Holt played it again. This time the room stayed silent until the last note hung and faded into the log walls. Then the young wolf who’d been pinned earlier clapped once, awkward and sincere. The others followed, a ripple of paws on palms, a few grins being hidden with bad grace.

Gabriel shifted the guitar back to his own lap and rolled his shoulders like a boxer warming up. “Alright, Holt Strength-Claws,” he said, eyes sliding mischievous. “You just bought yourself a song.”

Holt blinked. “Bought?”

“With effort,” Gabriel said, already shaping chords. He looked up at Thane for half a second; Thane’s mouth twitched. Gabriel set a steady pulse and sang in that effortless, low baritone that could make even a shopping list sound like a pledge.

“Big paws, soft touch, learned to listen more than bite,
Strong back, steady heart, found the music in the light.
You can pin the world, sure, but hear the harder art—
Hold the pack up with your hands and never break a heart.”

He glanced at Holt, who stared like the words were being carved into stone. Gabriel’s claws drummed a quick flourish on the soundboard, then settled into the melody Holt had just learned, weaving it into a chorus.

“Strength we carry, strength we keep,
Claws for building, claws for peace,
We are louder when we’re kind,
We are strongest when we find—
Big paws, soft touch.”

By the second chorus, Holt’s paw had found the pattern again and was playing under Gabriel’s voice, tentative but steady. The others watched with a mixture of resignation and dawning pride, shoulders bumping, a few nudges meaning “you see this?” without needing the words.

Mark leaned the kettle against the stove, watching from the doorway. “Did we just invent wolf guitar lessons?”

“Add to curriculum,” Thane said, dry.

“Prereqs: don’t maul the teacher,” Mark replied.

Rime moved closer to the hearth and sat, forearms on knees, listening like he was taking notes he couldn’t write. “Song teaches,” he said simply.

Gabriel finished with a little slide and left the last chord open to breathe. Holt stared at the guitar like it might be a living thing that had chosen him. He set his paw flat over the strings, not pressing—just resting there like a promise.

“Again tomorrow,” Gabriel said. “You’ll curse me twice and then thank me.”

“Twice,” Holt repeated gravely, as if this were part of the ritual. The room laughed, and Holt’s grin came free and easy this time.

The light outside had softened to blue by the time Mark started handing out tin cups. “Tea,” he announced. “Not coffee.” He made pointed eye contact with Holt.

Holt accepted his cup with exaggerated innocence. “Tea,” he agreed, though his eyes darted briefly to the shelf where Gabriel kept beans. The room snickered on cue.

A young feral found the courage to sink into the armchair and discovered the angle where it hugged back. His eyes went round. “Cloud den for sitting,” he whispered.

“Careful,” Gabriel said. “They’re habit-forming.”

Another drifted down the hall, peered into the spare room, and made a reverent sound. “Beds,” he breathed. “Big cloud dens.”

“You’re not sleeping here,” Thane said from the doorway, not unkind, and the wolf startled, then grinned and retreated. Thane’s gaze tracked him back into the living room and softened at the edges when he passed Holt and the guitar.

Outside, the forest breathed and settled. Inside, the cabin soaked up the last of the day—the clink of cups, the soft thrum of strings as Holt tried the pattern again, the quiet mutter of feral voices learning the names of small domestic things. No one hurried them out. No one needed to. When they finally rose, it was as a group, uncoiling slowly like a warm animal.

On the steps, Rime paused and looked back. “Good den,” he said. “Good music.” He touched his chest with the back of his paw, then toward Gabriel. “Teach makes strong in here.” He tapped his sternum. “Not only in here.” He flexed his forearm with a grin.

Gabriel saluted with the guitar pick he hadn’t used once. “Come back with better jokes.”

Holt stopped beside Thane, fingers grazing the neck of the instrument still in Gabriel’s lap. “Tomorrow,” he said.

“Tomorrow,” Thane agreed.

The ferals slid into the trees like they’d always been there. The cabin door clicked shut on a draft that smelled of pine and promise. In the quiet that followed, Gabriel relaxed back into the sofa and plucked the melody one more time, softer now, as if not to scare it. Mark rinsed cups with the last of the kettle water, humming under his breath. Thane stood a moment longer in the entry, listening to the forest settle and the small sounds of a den at peace.

“Big paws, soft touch,” Gabriel murmured, amused and pleased with himself.

Thane’s rumble came from the doorway like a low chord. “It’ll stick.”

Gabriel’s grin flashed. “That’s the plan.”

The lamp burned warm. The guitar sang something simple. And out under the darkening pines, a huge wolf padded along a path with his claws tapping out a rhythm against his thigh, quiet as a promise he intended to keep.

The morning started crisp and blue, the kind of autumn day where the cold nipped ears and the sun warmed everything it touched. Mark leaned over the hood of the old flatbed truck, wiping grease off his claws with a rag. The engine rumbled to life for the first time in years, coughing once before settling into a proud growl.

Marta stood nearby with her clipboard and her ever-present smile. “So what’s the shopping list this time?”

“Electronics, inverters, spare panels, wiring,” Mark said. “Maybe a few batteries if we get lucky. The solar array on the west ridge needs backup capacity.”

“Alright,” she said. “But be careful out there. Raiders have been pushing farther west. They’re not stupid enough to come here again after the last lesson, but they’re still out there.”

Thane climbed into the truck bed, tightening the strap on a supply crate. “We’ll manage,” he said. “We’ve got a few volunteers from the north coming along.”

Marta raised an eyebrow. “Wolves?”

“Of course,” Gabriel said, hopping up beside Thane with a thermos in hand. “Every adventure’s better with wolves.”

By the time the ferals arrived, the engine was purring and the morning mist had burned away. There were six of them, all grinning and curious, tails swishing as they sniffed the air and examined the truck like it might take off and fly. Sable wasn’t with them, but Rime stepped forward, handing Thane a folded scrap of paper.

“Sable gave me,” he said.

Thane opened it. The note was short.

Treat him as Alpha.
Return whole.

Thane smiled faintly and tucked it away.

One of the wolves, a massive brown-black male named Holt, was already nursing a tin cup of something dark. Gabriel leaned down from the truck bed, grinning. “You packed the coffee?”

Holt’s eyes lit up. “Yes.”

“Of course you did.”

Another feral, smaller and sharp-tongued, smirked. “He drinks lightning water like pup drinks milk.”

Holt growled, low and annoyed. “It keeps me strong.”

“It keeps you shaking,” the smaller one teased.

Holt’s ears flattened. “You want to test?”

Laughter rippled through the group until Holt moved faster than anyone expected—one paw on the smaller wolf’s chest, pinning him to the ground with a snarl that echoed off the square. Silence dropped like a hammer.

Thane looked down from the truck bed. “You done?”

Holt huffed and stepped back. “Done.”

Gabriel snorted laughter so hard he nearly spilled his coffee. “Oh, this trip is gonna be fun.”

“Get in,” Thane said, grinning despite himself. “We’ve got daylight to burn.”

---

The truck rolled out of Libby with a groan of gears and a plume of dust. Mark drove, the wolves riding in the flatbed — tails in the wind, eyes half-closed as they breathed in the scents of pine, wet earth, and the faint tang of autumn smoke. Gabriel perched on the side rail, guitar slung over his back, singing half a song to the rhythm of the tires.

“Feels like the old world again,” he said.

“Quieter,” Thane replied.

“Better,” Mark added from the cab window.

They followed Highway 2 east until the faded green sign announced a name half-eaten by rust — Wolf Point, once a small city and now a ghost. They turned off toward the industrial district, rolling between the silent skeletons of old buildings and parked trucks long reclaimed by vines.

Holt jumped down first, scanning the air. “No people. No fresh scent.”

“Good,” Thane said. “Let’s make it quick.”

The wolves spread out under Mark’s direction. In the first warehouse they found racks of broken appliances and crates of sealed electronics. Dust puffed with every step, the light from broken skylights painting gold stripes through the gloom.

“Panels!” Mark called, pointing at a stack of solar frames still wrapped in plastic. “Grab ’em.”

Two ferals lifted one each like sheets of cardboard.

Gabriel found a crate full of old stereo components and whistled. “Hey, Thane. You want a party sound system?”

Thane glanced over. “You find one?”

“PA system, amp, CD deck. Totally useless… but I’m claiming it.”

“Take it,” Thane said. “The town’ll thank you when you start another house party.”

They loaded the truck with everything salvageable — panels, batteries, spare wire, mechanical parts, even sealed cans of fuel that miraculously hadn’t rusted through. The wolves moved with easy rhythm, efficient and strong, trading jokes as they worked.

Gabriel kept slipping Holt refills of coffee from his thermos, grinning like the devil every time the big wolf’s eyes brightened. The others groaned.

“Stop feeding him that,” Rime said. “He talks too much when charged.”

Holt bared his teeth in a grin. “Then listen faster.”

By mid-afternoon, the truck was piled high, the last of the boxes strapped down tight. Thane hopped into the bed, scanning the sky — still clear, sun tilting west. “Let’s roll home,” he said.

Mark revved the engine. The convoy rolled west, quiet except for the wind and the occasional clink of metal. The mood was easy, satisfied. Until they rounded a bend in the highway and saw the roadblock.

A dusty pickup sat sideways across the asphalt, blocking the lane. Two figures stood beside it, rifles slung low, waving for the flatbed to stop.

Mark slowed, engine idling. “Well, that’s new,” he said.

Thane’s voice was calm. “Keep it slow. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

The truck rolled to a halt twenty feet short of the blockade. One of the men raised a hand. “Afternoon! Road’s closed ahead — construction hazard. You’ll need to pay a small toll to pass.”

Gabriel’s grin was immediate. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

The two men didn’t notice the silhouettes shifting in the truck bed behind him. Not until one of them took a step closer, saw the claws on the rail, and froze.

“What the hell—”

He didn’t finish. Holt moved like a missile — one moment crouched, the next he hit the ground running, a dark blur that closed twenty feet in a heartbeat. He slammed into the nearest bandit, sending rifle and man flying. The second barely had time to blink before he was staring down a half-dozen glowing eyes and an entire truckload of wolves baring their teeth.

The rifle hit the dirt. “Nope!” he squeaked, hands raised.

Thane dropped from the truck bed, landing in front of them with deliberate slowness. “Afternoon,” he said. “You picked the wrong toll booth.”

He turned to the wolves. “Line up.”

They stepped forward in a neat row, every one of them baring teeth in perfect synchronization.

Gabriel leaned against the truck, trying not to laugh. “Gentlemen, I’d suggest you surrender your weapons before my friends here decide they’re hungry.”

The bandit on the ground made a strangled noise that might’ve been agreement. The other nodded so fast his cap fell off.

“Good choice,” Thane said, voice calm as stone. “Drop everything. Leave the guns. Walk away.”

They obeyed instantly, stumbling over each other to get clear. The wolves watched silently until the men were back in their own vehicle, tires spinning as they tore off down the highway.

As the dust settled, a faint snicker came from the back. One of the younger wolves grinned. “One of them smells like fear.”

Rime corrected him, deadpan. “Not fear. Pee.”

The entire truck burst out laughing. Even Thane cracked a grin.

Gabriel doubled over, clutching his stomach. “Ohhh, I love this pack. You’re all invited to the next coffee tasting.”

Holt gave him a look that was half a threat, half a promise. “Bring more beans.”

Thane climbed back into the flatbed, shaking his head. “Next time,” he said, “we’re leaving you two home.”

“Blasphemy,” Gabriel said.

Mark started the truck again, still chuckling. “You realize word’s gonna spread about this.”

“Good,” Thane said, watching the road ahead as the engine roared back to life. “Fear travels farther than bullets.”

The wolves laughed again, the sound rolling with the wind as the flatbed rumbled westward — loaded with supplies, with stories, and with one caffeinated wolf still sipping triumphantly from his thermos.

Libby’s town square still smelled faintly of roasted meat and apple pie from the feast a week before. The morning air was cool, the sun barely clearing the ridgeline, and the usual hum of quiet rebuilding work drifted through the streets. Somewhere near the center, a new sound joined the rhythm of hammer and saw — the steady gurgle-hiss of a percolator.

Gabriel stood proudly beside his portable coffee setup, sleeves rolled, tail twitching like a metronome. “Alright,” he announced to the small audience of ferals who’d followed Sable into town. “Today, my friends, you learn the greatest gift humans ever invented — coffee.”

Sable stood with her arms crossed, expression hovering between curiosity and suspicion. “You said this drink wakes you,” she said.

“Oh, it’ll wake you, alright,” Gabriel replied, grinning. “It’ll wake your soul.”

Mark was tinkering with a solar-charged kettle nearby. “You’re seriously giving caffeine to wolves who can already sprint a mile in under thirty seconds?”

“Science,” Gabriel said with mock solemnity. “For the betterment of interspecies cultural relations.”

Thane muttered from his chair near the steps, “This is going to end badly.”

The percolator finished with a sharp pop-hiss, and the smell of rich, dark roast spilled into the air. The ferals tilted their heads in unison, nostrils flaring. One muttered reverently, “Smells like fire and forest.”

Gabriel poured the first cup, steaming and strong, into a tin mug and handed it to Sable. “For the Alpha.”

She accepted it like someone might accept a challenge. She sniffed it, frowned, then took a cautious sip. Her ears twitched once. “Bitter,” she said. “Like river mud.”

“It grows on you,” Gabriel said with a smirk. “Try another sip.”

Sable did. Then, quietly, she said, “It burns… but feels powerful.”

The other ferals, emboldened, stepped forward. Gabriel handed out cups one by one, adding sugar or cream where requested — though most wanted it black after seeing Sable drink hers that way. For a few minutes, nothing happened. The wolves sipped, wrinkled their noses, and traded skeptical looks.

Then the caffeine hit.

It started with Rime. He blinked hard, looked around, and muttered, “Heart is… loud.” Then he began pacing. Fast. In circles. “Very loud.”

A younger wolf next to him let out a surprised yip. “River runs in my chest!”

Two more jumped up simultaneously, tails wagging at supersonic speed. “We hunt now? Hunt something?”

“No hunting!” Sable growled, but her voice was lost in the sudden, glorious chaos.

Gabriel leaned against the railing, laughing so hard he nearly spilled his own mug. “Oh, this is amazing. Look at them go!”

Mark groaned. “You’ve just invented the world’s first feral espresso stampede.”

By the five-minute mark, the square was a frenzy of energy. Wolves ran laps around the fountain, arguing over invisible prey. One climbed onto the market table and began giving an impromptu speech about the “glorious hunt of sunrise.” Two others chased each other up a staircase, neither sure why.

One feral crouched next to Gabriel, eyes wide, whispering, “Can hear colors. The air hums. The ground sings. YOU SING.”

Gabriel doubled over laughing. “Oh, I’m definitely singing now.”

Sable turned toward Thane and Mark, standing at the edge of the pandemonium, and fixed Gabriel with a glare so sharp it could’ve peeled paint. “I should break him in half for this,” she said flatly.

Thane burst into deep, gravelly laughter that startled even a few of the wolves mid-sprint. “You’d have to stand in line,” he said. “I’ve wanted to do that more times than I can count.”

Mark added dryly, “Wouldn’t help. He’d probably reform from caffeine vapor.”

Sable exhaled through her nose, half growl, half sigh, but even she couldn’t hide the hint of a smile tugging at her muzzle. “My pack was quiet once,” she said. “Now they sound like birds after thunder.”

Gabriel threw his arms out dramatically. “You’re welcome! This is joy!”

“It’s chaos,” Thane countered, though he was still smiling. “And you’re buying the next batch of beans.”

As the day went on, the madness reached new heights. Wolves tried to build things that didn’t need building — one was stacking crates into a tower, another was organizing rocks by “color of power.” One discovered a hand-cranked radio, spun the dial too far, and howled along to the static.

Sable sat beside Thane on the low wall near the square fountain, her arms crossed but her expression softened by disbelief. The wolves ran, tumbled, laughed, and argued, all in full view of the amused townsfolk watching from porches and stalls.

“They’ll sleep for a week after this,” Thane said, sipping his own coffee.

“Or explode,” Sable replied.

“Fifty-fifty chance.”

The younger wolves had taken to racing through the street, leaping over barrels. One tripped, rolled, and came up laughing — something that made several humans chuckle along with him. Gabriel was right in the thick of it, pretending to referee a “speed test,” calling out times that made no sense.

Even Sable laughed then, a quick, sharp sound she tried to stifle with her hand.

Thane grinned. “Caught that.”

“Don’t,” she warned.

“Too late.”

By late afternoon, the sugar and caffeine hit their peak. Wolves were singing — or trying to. Gabriel had started a percussion section using pots and empty fuel cans. Two wolves harmonized by accident. It was, objectively, terrible music.

“Worst band I’ve ever heard,” Mark muttered.

“You built the sound system,” Gabriel shouted back. “This is your legacy!”

“Disowning it.”

Then, as the sun began to dip behind the hills, the inevitable happened.

The energy drained from the ferals all at once. One by one, they began to slow, blink, and sit. Then flop. Within minutes, the square looked like a battlefield of snoring wolves — sprawled across benches, curled under tables, or simply face-down on the cobblestones.

Gabriel stood among them, grinning. “Behold,” he said, gesturing wide, “the power of caffeine — and consequences.”

Sable’s glare could’ve melted concrete. “You will pay for this,” she said.

He pointed at the nearest sleeping wolf. “Can’t. They love it.”

Sable looked around. The wolves’ faces were peaceful, even happy. A few tails twitched in their sleep. Her expression softened again. “Maybe,” she admitted quietly.

Mark stretched his back. “They’re not moving anytime soon.”

Thane stood, surveying the scene. “Let’s get them off the street before someone trips over them.”

Between the four of them, they lifted, carried, and guided the sleeping ferals to the old town hotel. Most were dead weight — utterly limp and snoring. Thane carried two at once, one under each arm. Sable hauled another by his scruff until Mark opened a door. Gabriel nearly dropped one from laughing too hard when it snored mid-lift.

They tucked them two per room, the wolves curling instantly into the soft beds. A few gave happy little grumbles at the feel of the sheets. One whispered in his sleep, “Cloud den…”

Sable watched as the last pair were settled in. “They will never want to leave,” she said softly.

“They earned the rest,” Thane said.

Gabriel flopped onto a hallway bench, still chuckling. “They’ll forgive me eventually.”

Sable crossed her arms. “Maybe. But I will not.”

Thane stifled a laugh. “Get in line.”

By nightfall, the hotel was filled with the sound of deep, contented breathing. The square outside lay quiet under the lanterns, and for the first time all day, the world was still again.

Thane leaned against the doorframe beside Sable, both watching the sleeping wolves through the window.

“You know,” Gabriel said from down the hall, yawning, “I should probably patent this. ‘Coffee Diplomacy: Building Bridges Through Caffeine.’”

Sable shot him one last look, the kind that promised future retribution. Thane’s laughter followed it down the hallway like thunder rolling after a storm.

Autumn sunlight dripped gold down the valley, and Libby’s town square glowed like something out of another lifetime. Stalls lined both sides of the cobbled street — baskets of apples and pears, jars of preserves, bolts of salvaged fabric, hand-carved tools gleaming under strings of colored lanterns. The smell of roasted meat, baked bread, and warm cider hung in the air like a memory no one wanted to end.

Marta stood at the head of the square with her hands on her hips, surveying her kingdom with the proud squint of someone who’d pulled off the impossible. “I don’t care what anyone says,” she told Hank, “it’s still a miracle seeing this many people in one place who aren’t trying to shoot each other.”

Hank grunted, half amused. “Let’s not jinx it before dessert.”

At noon, a ripple of murmurs rolled through the square as Sable and her wolves appeared from the forest road — thirty strong, pale shapes glinting under the sunlight like living ghosts. Sable herself walked at the front, white fur bright as snow against the autumn colors. The sight of her alone would’ve frozen any sane raider in their tracks.

Marta waved. “Welcome, friends!” Her voice rang out, confident and warm. “You’re just in time for the market and the feast. There’s plenty for everyone.”

Sable nodded politely, but Thane caught the faint tension in her shoulders. Her wolves fanned out — wary, cautious, unused to so many humans so close. Some of Libby’s citizens backed away at first, instinct giving them that half-step of distance, but Marta’s cheer never faltered. She grabbed two pies off a nearby table and marched straight up to the nearest feral.

“Apple or cherry?” she asked.

The young wolf blinked, utterly lost.

“Cherry it is,” Marta decided, handing it to him like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Eat up before it cools.”

He sniffed, hesitated, then took a bite. His ears shot up. “Sweet fruit,” he said around a mouthful. “Tastes like… joy.”

The crowd laughed, and just like that, the tension broke.

Gabriel leaned close to Thane, a grin tugging at his muzzle. “You see that? Marta’s got more guts than half the pack.”

“She’s an alpha in her own right,” Thane said quietly.

Within minutes, the market buzzed with chatter and movement again. Ferals sniffed at bread loaves, touched jars curiously, and marveled at the colors of woven blankets. Townsfolk explained barter rules with exaggerated patience, happy to trade small goods for stories or help lifting crates.

At one corner, Gabriel taught a pair of curious young wolves how to juggle apples. “Don’t look at the fruit,” he said, tossing three into the air. “Look at the rhythm.”

The apples hit the ground within seconds, and one wolf dove after them like a hunting strike. Gabriel laughed so hard he nearly fell over. “Alright, new rule — juggling’s a two-paw operation, not a full tackle.”

Near the roasting pit, Mark and Rime shared a bench, comparing tools. Rime held up a blacksmith’s hammer, puzzled. “Heavy. But feels right.”

“Good weight,” Mark said, nodding. “You swing that right, you could knock sense into a generator. Or a raider.”

“Same difference,” Rime said, and they both chuckled.

By late afternoon, the feast tables were set — two long rows stretching down the square, piled high with food. Roasted deer, loaves of bread, fresh butter, mashed potatoes, even a few pumpkin pies. Humans and wolves sat side by side, the murmur of conversation mixing with laughter and the occasional playful growl.

Thane sat near the center beside Sable, who ate slowly, eyes sweeping the scene. “Your town,” she said, “they don’t fear us now.”

“They’ve learned,” Thane said simply.

One of the younger ferals — the same white-speckled male who’d challenged him weeks before — watched a child offer him a piece of bread. The wolf hesitated, then took it carefully. The girl giggled and ran back to her mother. The wolf looked at the bread like it was gold.

“See?” Gabriel whispered, nudging Thane. “We’re making progress. Next week they’ll be trading casserole recipes.”

Thane smirked. “Don’t push your luck.”

For a long while, everything was peaceful. Plates were passed, cups refilled, and laughter rolled through the crisp air. Someone even tuned a guitar, and a soft melody wound through the crowd like smoke.

Then came the sound.

Engines — faint at first, then growing louder, hard and angry. Tires on gravel. The laughter died mid-note. Thane’s ears turned toward the east gate.

The truck burst through the open archway with a roar, plowing straight into the square. Ten men clung to the sides, shouting, waving rifles and shotguns. The lead truck screeched to a halt beside the market stalls, bumper clipping a crate of apples that exploded across the cobblestones.

“Hands up!” one of the raiders yelled, stepping down with his rifle raised. “We’re taking your food, your fuel, and whatever else ain’t nailed down—”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Thirty feral wolves turned in unison. The humans nearest them froze; even the wind seemed to hold its breath. For a heartbeat, the raiders stood there, staring at a wall of fur, fangs, and muscle — wolves halfway between patience and predation.

The man nearest the truck whispered, “Oh… shit.”

Gabriel stood up from his seat, hands spread. “Fellas,” he said, “you might wanna rethink your life choices real quick.”

One of the raiders tried to bring his rifle up. He never got the chance. A gray feral slammed into him like a sledgehammer, sending both rifle and man tumbling. Another wolf tipped the truck with a roar of metal and shattering glass. Two more pinned the raiders beneath a hail of claws and snarls.

The humans of Libby watched, stunned — not one of them moved to help, and none needed to. Within seconds, the fight was over. Ten raiders lay on the ground, disarmed, terrified, alive only because the wolves hadn’t decided otherwise.

Thane rose from the table and walked forward with the kind of calm that makes even predators take a step back. Sable moved beside him, her white fur bright under the lanterns. The crowd parted as they passed, wolves holding their prisoners down but not harming them.

The raider leader — a broad man with a bloody lip and eyes wide as full moons — stared up at Thane as he stopped over him.

Thane bent, picked up the man’s rifle, and snapped it cleanly across his knee. The sound echoed like a gunshot.

“You picked the wrong town,” Thane said, voice low but carrying through the square. “And the wrong day.”

He gestured for the wolf pinning the man to step back, then grabbed the raider by his collar and dragged him to the feast table. When he let go, the man fell against the bench, shaking.

“You owe these people,” Thane growled. “And my pack. An apology.”

The man swallowed hard, glancing between the circle of wolves and the dozens of human eyes on him. “I—” He broke off, his voice trembling. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for… interrupting your—your dinner.”

“Say it properly,” Thane said, leaning closer.

“I’m sorry!” the man blurted, eyes wet with fear. “I’m sorry for coming here! Please don’t kill us!”

Sable watched in silence, her gaze sharp as glass.

Thane stood, towering over the raider. “You’re going to walk. Leave your weapons, your truck, and whatever pride you’ve got left. If I ever hear you came near this valley again…” He didn’t finish the sentence — he didn’t need to.

The man nodded frantically. “Yes. Yes, sir. We’ll go.”

“Good,” Thane said. “Walk.”

The wolves stepped back. The raiders scrambled to their feet, leaving their guns in the dirt, and stumbled out the east gate under a hundred watching eyes.

When they were gone, the silence held for several long breaths.

Sable turned to Thane. “You could’ve killed them,” she said.

“I could’ve,” he answered. “But they’ll tell the story. Fear travels faster than bodies rot. Let them spread the tale.”

Sable’s gaze lingered on him, thoughtful. “Mercy as a weapon.”

“Mercy as a message,” Thane corrected.

Behind them, Gabriel exhaled. “Well,” he said, clapping his hands together, “that was dramatic. Anyone else hungry again?”

Laughter broke like a wave through the square. Tension melted into cheers and applause. Someone started the music again. Marta raised a glass and called out, “To the wolves — both kinds!”

“To the wolves!” the crowd echoed, and Sable’s pack howled in answer, long and strong, a sound that filled the valley and rolled into the night.

Under the lantern glow, humans and wolves returned to their feast, side by side once more — the world’s strangest family, stronger than fear and louder than the dark.

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.

Morning broke over the Kootenai in silver and gold, the river gliding smooth under a sky that promised clear weather and just enough breeze to keep the blackflies second-guessing their life choices. East of Libby, the old steel-and-timber span waited like a tired workhorse—useful, stubborn, and half held together with prayer and rope.

Libby’s crew rolled up in two trucks and a flatbed stacked with lumber, angle plate, and the kind of hardware that makes a bridge forget it’s old. Hank hopped down first, tipping his hat toward the water as if greeting a neighbor. Marta followed with a clipboard and a smile that told people exactly where to be without raising her voice. Mark lugged a generator welder like it was a picnic cooler and muttered, “If this thing trips one more breaker, I’m teaching it to swim.” Gabriel slung a coil of rope over his shoulder, the inevitable coffee thermos dangling from his belt like sacred treasure.

Thane came last, quiet and broad-shouldered in the morning light, claws clicking once on the steel grating as he stepped onto the span. He scanned the girders, the missing planks, and the scabbed-over welds where raiders had cut and run months back. He could smell the faint ghost of burnt metal and hear the river chewing the pilings below. Fixable, he decided. More than that—worth fixing.

From the treeline, the forest exhaled a handful of shadows that unfurled into wolves. Sable wasn’t with them today; she’d sent a crew with a nod and a single word—“Help.” Rime led, gray and calm, with three younger ferals at his flank: Marn (tilt to his ears that shouted enthusiasm), a black-furred she-wolf who’d fallen in love with radios and now stared curiously at every coil of wire, and a brawny cinnamon male who looked at the timber stacks like he’d found a new toy.

Hank met them at the end of the span. “Morning,” he said, like greeting a neighbor’s dog that could also bench-press a tractor. “We’re glad to have you.”

Rime dipped his head. “We lift. You point.”

“Deal,” Hank said, smiling.

They got to it.

The first hour was measuring, marking, and arguing cheerfully about millimeters like they’d discovered a new religion. Mark hammered chalk lines across the decking, then strung snap lines with surgical precision. Gabriel anchored a pulley high on the truss, toes curling on narrow flanges, humming as if being twenty feet above the river was just a more scenic place to drink coffee.

“Rime,” Thane called, voice carrying low and sure across the span. “Let’s swing those timbers.”

Rime answered with action. He and the cinnamon male each shouldered a beam meant for four humans. The humans stared. It wasn’t the raw power that stunned them—it was the grace: claws finding grip on rusted steel, shoulders rolling, weight shifting like water poured from one cup to another. A young carpenter named Ellie actually stopped mid-bolt and forgot to breathe.

“Okay,” she whispered. “That’s not fair.”

Marn did a little hop at the end of the beam, balancing it like a gymnast on a rail. “Strong,” he said, delighted.

“Down, show-off,” Rime rumbled, but his eyes warmed with pride.

They seated the first run of deck planks like it was a dance—wolves holding, humans aligning, Thane setting each piece by feel and sound. He used the heel of his hand to thump—solid, solid, dull—then rotated a plank a quarter inch and it sang right. “There,” he said, and Ellie scrambled with the carriage bolts, grinning like she’d been let in on a secret.

The welder coughed to life. Mark lowered his visor and ran a beautiful bead along a new gusset plate, sparks spitting fat and bright. The black-furred radio-wolf leaned in, eyes wide behind borrowed safety goggles.

“Bright metal rain,” she whispered.

“Hot metal rain,” Mark corrected, not looking up. “Trust the goggles.”

She nodded solemnly, tail flicking. “Trust… goggles.”

An hour later, the cinnamon male decided to “test” a support truss mid-lift by stepping onto it. The crane—hand-cranked with two humans grunting—buckled and squealed.

“Hey!” Hank barked. “Get your four-hundred-pound curiosity off my chain, please and thanks!”

The wolf sprang back, landing in a perfect crouch beside Thane, contrite. “Wanted to know if strong.”

“It will be,” Thane said, deadpan. “After we install it.”

Gabriel, from somewhere up in the truss with a harness he mostly wore for the humans’ benefit, laughed. “We’re inventing a new trade: structural inspection by pouncing.”

Marn, incredibly earnest, raised a paw. “We can bounce also,” he offered.

“Please don’t,” three humans said in weary chorus.

By late morning, rhythm settled in: lift, seat, align, bolt, weld. Wolves moved like cranes with instincts, humans like metronomes with tool belts. A pair of older townsfolk set up a folding table near the abutment with canteens and sandwiches. The river chuckled to itself below, admiring the industry.

Lunch was a cultural exchange. Wolves stared at human sandwiches like someone had made handheld magic. Humans watched wolves eat like someone had invented a new unit of volume.

“It’s… bread around food,” Marn marveled, holding a ham-and-cheese delicately, as if it might bolt. “Why hide food in pillow?”

“Because it’s tidy,” Marta said, biting hers. “And portable.”

“Like stack-meat,” he said, impressed, and took a careful bite. His eyes widened. “Stack-meat tastes good.”

Gabriel almost choked on laughter. “We’re calling them that forever now. ‘Two stack-meats with mustard, please.’”

Ellie slid a second sandwich toward the cinnamon wolf. “You, big guy—ever try pickles?”

He sniffed suspiciously. Tried one. His ears shot straight up. “Sharp water,” he exclaimed, delighted, and immediately wanted more.

Thane didn’t eat yet. He walked the span, a slow patrol, checking bolts with fingertips and weight. Where a decking board didn’t sit flush, he crouched and set it right, coaxing metal and wood into agreement. When he finally joined the lunch crowd, Gabriel slid his own thermos toward him with the reverence of offering a relic.

“Coffee,” Thane said, softly, as if naming a rare bird. He took a long drink, eyes closing for a second. “Bless you.”

“Say it again,” Gabriel grinned. “But slower.”

“Eat your stack-meat,” Thane said without looking at him, and Gabriel’s laugh came out loud and bright.

In the early afternoon a dark smear of cloud pulled itself over the ridge and decided to try its luck. Rain spit down in a sudden squall and turned the steel slick. They covered the welder and stowed the loose hardware, but one of Hank’s deputies—Tommy, tall and too confident—stepped the wrong way on a narrow flange.

His boot skidded. He pinwheeled once, twice—fingers clawing air—and then there was nothing under him but twenty feet of bad ideas and river.

He didn’t fall.

A gray shape blurred, caught him by the back of his jacket, and hung there—upside down, four paws latched to the under-flange like a living clamp. For a full second the world held that picture: Tommy gawking at the river, the wolf grunting with the effort, rain drumming a hard rhythm around them.

Then Thane was there, hauling Tommy up by the collar with one hand and trading the weight smoothly to Hank, who hauled him to safety with a swear that had three syllables and a prayer attached.

Tommy sat down hard and started laughing in that slightly hysterical way of the newly lucky. “I… uh… I meant to do that.”

Hank slapped his shoulder. “You meant to give me a heart attack, maybe.” He looked up at the gray wolf still clamped under the flange. “You ever consider joining the fire department?”

The wolf bared his teeth in what was almost a smile. “We do not like ladders,” he said, and casually spidered back to the beam like gravity was a rumor.

The rain ran out of courage in ten minutes and wandered off to bother some other valley. The sun returned hotter, the steel steamed, and the work picked up again, lighter now, laughter tucked into the joints.

Rime watched Thane settle a gusset with a mallet and a whisper of pressure, then spoke, low enough only Thane would hear. “Your people trust you with their weight.”

“They trust all of us,” Thane said. “That’s the point.”

“Good pack,” Rime said, and Thane’s answering nod had the weight of a vow.

By late afternoon, the last deck plank slid into place with a sound that made everyone pause—like a final puzzle piece finding home. Ellie spun the nut on the last carriage bolt and thumped it with her palm, grinning at the satisfying thunk.

Mark, visor down, ran the last weld bead along a plate so clean it could’ve been calligraphy. He snapped the hood up, wiped his brow with the back of his wrist, and announced, “If this bridge could talk, it’d flirt with me.”

Gabriel cupped his hands around his mouth and called to the valley, “Don’t encourage him!”

Hank did the ceremonial test he always did: walked the length of the span alone first, then jumped once at midspan—just enough to feel the give. The bridge didn’t complain. It hummed—quiet, strong, sure.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s do it proper.”

They lined up shoulder to shoulder—humans and wolves—and walked across together. Boots, paws, claws. A river below, a town behind, a future in front. Somewhere near midspan Gabriel began a drumbeat on the guardrail with a wrench; two kids at the abutment caught the rhythm and clapped; a couple shopkeepers down the road heard the noise and wandered up to see.

On the far side, Marta climbed onto the rail and raised both hands. “Citizens of Libby,” she called, and then glanced at Rime with a quick, warm smile, “and citizens of the North—”

Rime straightened a little, surprised and pleased.

“—we declare this bridge open and in service,” Marta finished. “May it carry more food than fear, more laughter than grief, and more neighbors than enemies.”

“Here here!” Hank barked, and someone whooped. Ellie let out a short, triumphant scream. The wolves lifted muzzles, a low, rolling harmony that folded into the sound of the river like it had been waiting for a counterpart.

Thane didn’t howl—he rarely did in town—but the sound settled into him. He looked across the deck at Rime. The gray wolf tilted his head. No words were necessary. This was the work.

They spent the last light of day policing the site—sweeping up cuttings, stacking spare timber, stowing harnesses. Gabriel lounged against a post and taught Marn to tap a beat with a socket wrench without denting the railing. (“You’re a natural, kid—light wrists.” “Light… wrists.” “Exactly.”)

Tommy, newly humble, shook the upside-down rescuer’s hand with both of his. “Buy you a beer sometime,” he said.

“We like meat better,” the wolf replied, agreeable.

“Done.”

As the sun shouldered into the ridgeline and stained the river copper, Thane walked the span one last time. The steel felt different under his feet now—less brittle, more certain. He paused at the crown and watched the current stitch light into long gold threads downstream.

Rime padded up beside him, silent as thought. They stood together a while, doing the kind of work leaders do best when the shouting’s finished—nothing, and everything.

“Will Sable be pleased?” Thane asked at last.

Rime’s answer was a smile in his voice. “She will say nothing. And keep standing here too long.”

Thane’s mouth tugged. “Then we understand each other.”

They turned back toward Libby. The town’s lamps were blinking awake down the road, and if you listened hard you could hear, faint and stubborn, a radio in somebody’s open window playing a song they all knew by heart.

Behind them, the bridge held. Ahead of them, laughter. Between those two, a valley that—slowly, stubbornly—was learning how to live.

The sky was clear and blue that morning, streaked with thin clouds drifting over the mountains. The air smelled like pine and diesel—KLMR-FM’s generator humming steady outside, filling the clearing with the low growl of power. The red tower stood proud again, its light winking softly against the sun.

Inside, the booth was alive with the kind of chaos only Gabriel could inspire.

“Okay,” he said, leaning across the console with a grin, “this button plays sound effects. This one controls the mics. And this—”

One of Sable’s young wolves, a lanky teenager with streaked gray fur, pressed the button before he finished. A loud airhorn blared through the monitors, making everyone jump.

Mark nearly dropped his screwdriver. “For the love of—don’t touch anything that makes that noise.”

The young wolf’s ears flattened. “Was loud,” he said apologetically.

“Yeah,” Gabriel said, laughing. “That’s the point.”

Sable watched from the doorway, arms folded, amusement dancing in her eyes. She’d brought five of her younger wolves along this time, claiming they were “curious about the human howl.” Thane suspected curiosity was only part of it—they’d heard the first broadcast echo through the forest, and it had lit something in them.

Now they huddled around the control board, tails swishing, eyes wide.

Gabriel slid the mic closer to one of them. “Alright, try this—say hello to everyone listening out there. Just talk normal. The wind will carry it.”

The young wolf swallowed, then leaned in awkwardly. “Hello… everyone listening out there.” His voice cracked halfway through, and the others burst into laughter.

“That’s perfect!” Gabriel said, chuckling. “Now say who you are.”

The wolf’s ears flicked nervously. “I am… Marn.”

“Excellent. You’re officially on the air, Marn.”

Mark adjusted the gain knobs, watching the meters bounce. “Signal’s solid. Town’s probably hearing all of this.”

Sable smirked. “Then they will know our young are not shy.”

Another wolf—smaller, black-furred and wide-eyed—tugged on Thane’s sleeve. “Can I try?”

Thane nodded, motioning her forward. She pressed her muzzle close to the microphone, hesitated, then spoke softly. “Hello Libby… this is wolves of north. We are friends.”

The room went still for a moment. Gabriel smiled. “That’s going straight to the highlight reel.”

Mark glanced up. “They’re naturals.”

“Yeah,” Thane said, his gravel voice softer than usual. “They’re speaking a new kind of language.”

---

The chaos only escalated from there.

At one point, a young feral discovered the fader that controlled the background music. He slid it all the way up, blasting Highway to Hell through the monitors so loud it rattled the glass. Sable’s ears flattened, and Gabriel lunged across the console yelling, “Not that one!”

The wolves howled with laughter—literally. The noise peaked the levels, the compressor hissed, and one speaker gave up with a sad pop.

Mark groaned. “I just fixed that!”

Thane was laughing too hard to stop them. For a brief, ridiculous stretch of time, the world was nothing but laughter, rock music, and howls echoing off the booth walls. The sound was wild and free and perfect.

Eventually, Gabriel wiped his eyes, breathless. “Alright,” he said. “Serious now. You guys want to say something real before we sign off?”

The young wolves quieted. They huddled close around the mic, exchanging nervous glances. Marn finally spoke, his voice steady this time. “We are pack of north. We hear Libby. We learn your howl. We… thank you.”

The smaller black-furred wolf added, “You not alone. We not alone. We all pack.”

Even the static seemed to hold its breath.

Thane stood behind them, watching, something heavy and warm stirring in his chest. He didn’t say a word. Neither did Sable.

Gabriel’s grin softened. “And that, my friends, is what we call good radio.”

---

The broadcast wrapped an hour later. The young wolves trotted outside, still laughing, playfully swatting at each other’s tails. Mark shut down the board and leaned back in his chair with a sigh of satisfaction. “Well,” he said, “that’s officially the strangest broadcast I’ve ever engineered.”

Gabriel leaned against the doorway. “Nah. That’s the best one.”

Thane was still smiling when he went to the back room for a rag to wipe his hands—and that’s when he saw it.

A cardboard box, tucked behind an old filing cabinet. Dusty, dented, but intact. The side was stamped in faded letters:
KLMR PROMOTIONAL RADIOS — 24 COUNT

He tore it open and froze. Inside, nestled in bubble wrap, were handheld transistor radios—bright red plastic with the KLMR logo still printed on the side. A stack of tiny instruction booklets and AA batteries sat beside them.

“Mark!” Thane called.

Mark poked his head through the door. “Yeah?”

Thane held one up. “Look what I found.”

Mark’s eyes went wide. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. Those actually survived?”

“Looks like it.” Thane turned it over in his hands, wiped the dust off the speaker grill, and flicked the power switch. The little unit hissed, then came alive with faint static. A second later, Gabriel’s voice came through the tiny speaker: “—and that was the debut of our feral friends! Stick around for more rock—”

Thane chuckled. “Still got it.”

He walked outside, where Sable was standing with her young wolves, all of them looking happy and proud. The smaller one—black-furred, bright-eyed—tilted her head. “What’s that?”

Thane knelt down and handed her the radio. “A piece of magic,” he said. “You can hear the howl whenever you want.”

She pressed the speaker to her ear, gasping softly as the music drifted through. “Howl in hand,” she whispered. “Magic wind.”

Sable looked down at her, eyes soft. “You made them believe,” she said quietly. “You gave them the wind.”

Thane offered her another unit. “Take a couple. They’re yours now. Keep them safe.”

Sable accepted the radios gently, her claws tracing the embossed logo. “We will. My pack will listen.”

“You’ll be part of every broadcast,” Thane said. “Even from the north.”

She smiled. “Then the north will howl with you.”

---

When they packed up to head back to Libby, the forest was alive with faint music—the young wolves still carrying their new treasures, holding them to their ears as they disappeared into the trees. Gabriel chuckled as they faded into the distance. “You realize we just invented werewolf radio fans, right?”

Thane smirked. “Could be worse. At least they’ve got good taste.”

Mark carried the rest of the box to the truck. “I’ll clean these up, swap the batteries. Marta’ll know who could use them.”

“Good,” Thane said, glancing back at the tower. The red light blinked steadily above the pines, rhythmic and calm—a heartbeat in the daylight.

Sable and her wolves were gone now, their laughter echoing faintly through the forest. But he could still picture them that night—huddled around those little radios under the stars, listening to the hum of guitars and the steady, familiar rumble of his voice.

Gabriel climbed into the passenger seat, grinning. “You think they’ll be tuning in every night now?”

Thane started the engine, the low growl of the truck joining the hum of the generator. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Every night. And probably howling along.”

The road wound south toward Libby, the music still playing faintly through the dashboard radio as the forest swallowed the sound. Behind them, the tower kept blinking, its red light pulsing steady and sure against the sky—Libby’s voice, the pack’s howl, and the promise of connection echoing through the air.

The patrol road north of Libby was empty, just ruts and gravel, the pine trees whispering like old friends. The sun hung low and amber through the branches, and the air smelled faintly of sap and rain. Thane walked alone that morning—no reason to expect company, no reason to expect discovery. He’d done this route a hundred times. The world beyond Libby was quiet now. Quiet, and slowly, mercifully healing.

Half a mile out, something caught his eye through the trees. Metal—faded red, jagged and tall. At first, he thought it was a broken windmill, another rusted relic left to rot. But the shape wasn’t right. It was skeletal, geometric, too symmetrical. He slowed, stepping through the brush until the full silhouette emerged from the mist.

A tower.

Thane blinked, ears flicking. He hadn’t seen one like it since before the Fall. Steel lattice, maybe two hundred feet high, a faint glint of old warning lights along its spine. The wind carried a soft metallic hum—almost like it was remembering a job it used to have. Beneath it sat a small building, square, low-roofed, and mostly intact. A sign above the cracked door read KLMR-FM — 98.7 The Pulse of Montana. The words were faded, but they still had pride.

A radio station.

Thane froze at the threshold, his chest tightening with something that felt like memory. He pushed the door open. It creaked loud in the silence. Inside, dust floated through slanted light beams. The air smelled like paper and machine oil. A half-full coffee mug sat on the counter beside a microphone. A calendar on the wall read April 2026 — the month the world fell apart.

He stepped into the control booth. The console was still there—rows of sliders, a cracked monitor, the red ON AIR light above the glass window. CD racks lined the walls, hundreds of jewel cases still alphabetized like someone thought they’d be back after lunch. He reached out and touched the fader. Dust came off on his finger.

Mark would lose his mind over this.

---

By morning, he did.

“Holy hell,” Mark breathed when they arrived the next day. “You’re telling me this has been sitting here all this time?”

“Waiting for us,” Thane said simply.

Gabriel let out a low whistle as they stepped through the doorway. “It’s like walking into a time capsule. Look at this—actual discs!” He plucked one off a rack. “Man, rock radio. These people had taste.”

Mark ran a claw along the console, reverent as a priest at an altar. “Analog mixing board. Tube amps. She’s old, but solid. These were built to last.”

Thane smiled faintly. “So were we.”

They set to work. Mark popped open panels and cleaned contacts while Thane dug through the generator shed. The unit was rusted, but not dead. Diesel still pooled in the bottom of the tank, long since gone stale. He siphoned it out, refilled it with fresh fuel from their reserves, and pulled the cord. The machine coughed, shuddered, then settled into a steady, familiar rumble. The vibration rolled through the dirt and up into his bones like an old heartbeat restarting.

“Power’s up!” Thane called. Inside, lights flickered—then steadied. A soft amber glow filled the room.

Gabriel grinned like a kid on Christmas morning. “Gentlewolves, we have life.”

Mark looked up from behind the console, grease on his fur, eyes shining. “If this transmitter still fires, we can actually broadcast. You realize what that means? Music again. Voice. Reach.”

Thane nodded. “A howl for the world.”

---

They weren’t alone long. The forest rustled. Three shapes stepped from the trees—gray and lean, eyes bright with curiosity. Sable led the way, cloak of fur catching the sunlight. Behind her, two young wolves followed, heads cocked at the hum of the generator.

“What is this place?” Sable asked, sniffing the air. “It smells of metal and lightning.”

“Radio,” Thane said, still tightening bolts. “We used to talk to the world this way.”

Sable frowned, glancing up at the tower. “Talk to the world? But how?”

He smiled. “We speak here, and that tower carries our words through the air. Anyone listening can hear it.”

Her eyes widened. “A howl that rides the wind,” she murmured. “Without lungs.”

Gabriel chuckled. “Exactly. Think of it as… an electric howl. One that never dies.”

Sable tilted her head, thoughtful. “Strange magic.”

Thane finished reconnecting a cable and wiped his hands on a rag. “It was just technology once. Now it’s hope.”

He stepped aside as Mark flipped switches in sequence, each click echoing like a heartbeat. The console hummed. The old transmitter light blinked green for the first time in years. Static whispered from the speakers. Gabriel nearly jumped out of his seat. “She’s alive!”

The wolves startled at the sound, claws flexing. Sable’s ears flicked back. “What was that?”

“Noise,” Thane said, smiling. “The sound of the void. Give it a second.”

He turned one of the knobs. The static softened. A faint hum emerged—clean, pure, electric. He nodded to Gabriel. “Pick something.”

Gabriel looked through the CD rack, holding them up like sacred relics. “Hmm… what says ‘resurrection of rock?’ Ah.” He held up one. “This’ll do.” He slid it into the tray. The player clicked shut.

Thane moved behind the mic. The red ON AIR light glowed to life.

He pressed the button, his gravel voice rumbling low and steady.
“Good evening, survivors. This is K-L-M-R, Libby, Montana. Back on the air for the first time since the world fell quiet. If you can hear this… you’re not alone.”

Gabriel hit play. The first guitar chord exploded through the speakers—raw, defiant, glorious. Mark adjusted the fader, smiling like it was oxygen. The music filled the room, poured out through the open doorway, rolled into the forest, and climbed the mountains.

Down in Libby, people looked up from their work. A farmer in his field froze as his battered old radio crackled to life. A mother washing clothes in the creek laughed through tears as her children danced to the faint rhythm echoing from the old general store’s speakers. Someone shouted, “It’s music! Real music!” Others ran outside, radios pressed to their ears, smiling like they’d seen the sun for the first time.

In the woods, Sable and her pack stared, spellbound. The sound was invisible, yet everywhere—vibrating in the ground, trembling in their ribs. “You bring the pack together with sound,” Sable said quietly. “A howl they can’t see.”

“That’s the idea,” Thane said.

---

As the hours passed, the wolves settled in, sitting on the floor as the three men traded stories through the mic. Mark read old PSAs just to hear them spoken again. Gabriel cracked jokes between songs and dubbed himself “DJ Fang,” earning groans from both of them. Thane’s voice remained steady, a calm anchor between tracks. “If you’re tuning in tonight,” he said, “this one’s for everyone who ever thought silence was forever.”

When he turned the mic off, the room glowed with quiet pride. Even the ferals seemed calmer, eyes half-closed, swaying to a rhythm they didn’t understand but somehow recognized. The night stretched soft and safe. For once, the forest wasn’t listening for danger—it was listening for beauty.

By midnight, the generator began to cough. Mark sighed, leaning back in his chair. “We’ll need more fuel if we want to keep it running.”

“Tomorrow,” Thane said. “Let it rest.”

He powered down the board, each switch clicking off with reluctant finality. The hum faded. The room settled back into stillness—but not silence. The air felt different now. Lighter.

They stepped outside together. The tower light blinked red against a sky full of stars. Gabriel stared up, hands on his hips. “Man. That light… it’s like a heartbeat.”

Thane nodded slowly. “It is.”

Sable stood beside him, fur silver in the moonlight. “You’ve given the wind a voice again,” she said softly. “A howl no pack alone could make.”

He looked out toward the horizon where the signal was still traveling, bouncing unseen across the valleys, carrying their voices into places no one had been in years. “We just reminded it what one sounds like.”

Sable smiled faintly, her tone low and reverent. “You’ve built more than a town here, Thane. You’ve built an echo.”

He didn’t answer—just watched the blinking red light trace the rhythm of a pulse too old to die.

Far below, in the valley, the faint sound of rock and laughter still rolled through open windows. For the first time in years, the night didn’t feel empty. The world had found its heartbeat again.

The war drums had gone quiet.
What remained in their place was laughter — soft, unsteady, but real.

Late summer sunlight draped over Libby like a warm blanket. The square, once scarred from fire and fear, now hummed with ordinary noise: hammers fixing a gate, children’s voices tumbling over each other, the rhythmic clang of metal from Hank’s deputies patching armor plates into something resembling a water pump.

And, for the first time, a few small, wide-eyed feral pups sat cross-legged on the cobblestones — watching humans with wonder.

The younger wolves had come down from the northern forest with Sable, curious after weeks of hearing about the “town of lights.” Their eyes darted from the bakery window’s shine to the wooden toy stand Gabriel had rigged out of scrap boards. A girl from Libby handed one of them a carved horse, its mane painted blue. The pup turned it over in his claws, astonished that something so small could be built just for joy.

Marta knelt beside them, patient as ever. “If you hold the brush at the end,” she said, demonstrating, “you can paint smoother. Like this.”

The wolf pup mimicked her, tongue sticking out in concentration, and dragged a careful stroke across the wood. He looked up, eyes bright. “Pretty.”

Marta smiled. “Exactly. Pretty.”

Gabriel leaned against a post nearby, strumming his guitar, voice rolling through the square like sunlight through smoke. The song wasn’t one of Feral Eclipse’s hard ones — this was the kind of tune you hum when the world feels fragile and whole at once. A few of the kids from both sides clapped out of rhythm. No one minded.

Mark sat near the workshop, teaching an older feral teen how to solder two wires. The boy’s claws weren’t made for delicate work, but Mark’s calm, deliberate patience made it look easy.

“It’s not about strength,” Mark said. “It’s about heat control. The metal does most of the work if you let it.”
“Like hunting,” the young wolf said thoughtfully.
“Exactly,” Mark replied, smiling.

Thane stood back at the edge of the square, arms crossed, taking it in. He wasn’t one for crowds, but there was something about the sight of wolves and humans sitting side by side — learning, laughing, living — that made even his rough voice want to break a little.

He didn’t notice Sable approach until she was beside him. Her step was quiet as falling ash.
For once, she wasn’t armored in command — no leather harness, no weapons, no posture of authority. Just Sable, tall and proud, her gray-white fur catching the light, her expression soft with something rare: ease.

They watched in silence for a moment.

One of her pups, the smallest, was listening intently as an elderly baker explained how yeast worked. The little wolf’s nose twitched at the smell of bread. When the dough rose, he jumped back in shock, then laughed so loud even Gabriel lost his rhythm.

Sable’s mouth twitched upward. “They’ve never seen anything like this,” she murmured. “Color. Music. Things made just because someone wanted to.”

Thane nodded. “Most of us hadn’t, either, before this place.”

Sable folded her arms, eyes sweeping the square. “You did this. You made a place where my young can learn without fear.”

“You brought them here,” Thane said. “I just kept the door open.”

She looked at him — really looked — and her gaze held more than gratitude. Respect. Trust. The kind that can’t be ordered, only earned.

“They think the humans are strange,” she said with a soft laugh. “But they like them. They said the people smell like warmth and stone. I told them that’s what safety smells like.”

Thane’s gravel voice softened. “You always did have a better way with words.”

Sable turned toward him, hands clasped loosely before her. “I used to think peace was weakness,” she admitted. “That the quiet would make us soft. But watching them…” She gestured toward the square — wolves learning paint, humans learning patience. “It’s not softness. It’s strength without fear.”

Thane looked at her for a long moment. “You’ve built that too. Don’t forget it.”

For the first time since they’d met, she laughed freely — a warm, rich sound that startled a few birds from the roofline. “You’re dangerous, Thane. You make even an Alpha doubt her own pride.”

He smiled — rare, genuine. “You just figured that out?”

Sable stepped closer, her expression gentler now. “No,” she said quietly. “I just finally understood why.”

Then, in the middle of the sunlight and laughter, she placed a hand on his shoulder — a gesture full of strength, acknowledgment, and shared purpose.

“Thank you,” she said. “For giving my wolves a world worth living in.”

Thane covered her hand with his own, claws careful not to scratch. “We built it together.”

They stood like that for a moment — two Alphas, silent amid the noise of a healing town. Around them, humans taught wolves to read maps and patch clothes, and wolves taught humans to move quietly through forest paths, how to smell rain before it came, how to listen to the earth breathe.

It was a classroom without walls. A future without fear.

As the sun dipped low and the air filled with the scent of baking bread and pine, Sable stepped back, nodding once in quiet respect. “I’ll take my pack north tomorrow,” she said. “But not far. I think we both know the world’s better when we watch each other’s borders.”

Thane nodded. “Ain’t that the truth.”

They watched the square a while longer. The laughter, the singing, the smell of food — all of it was fragile and miraculous, born of blood and trust and the simple human (and wolf) desire to build something that lasts.

When the first stars appeared, Gabriel’s song drifted into silence, and the night took over the melody.

For the first time in years, neither Alpha felt alone.