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.