The Humvee rolled back into Libby with the slow, satisfied growl of a wolf after a long hunt. Evening sunlight painted the hills gold. The air smelled like home—woodsmoke, snowmelt, and stew.
Varro sat upright in the passenger seat, still spattered in dried blood despite Thane’s half-hearted attempt to clean him up with a rag. He looked like he’d wrestled a grizzly and won. At the west gate, Hank raised a hand, then froze mid-wave.
“Good lord, Thane,” Hank called, half-laughing. “You bring the apocalypse home with you, or just shop at the scary mall?”
Thane slowed to a stop. “Bit of both,” he said. “Got sugar, though.”
“Then you’re forgiven,” Hank said, waving them through. “Welcome home, boys.”
The cabin door swung open to the usual chaos—warm light, laughter, and absolutely no order. Gabriel lounged in a blanket, playing something halfway between blues and nonsense. Rime was trying to fix a broken latch that Holt had “fixed” yesterday. Mark was elbow-deep in a box of resistors. And the smell of stew hung thick enough to feel like safety itself.
Holt turned from the table just in time to see the two return. “THANE!” he boomed, grinning wide—then froze. “What—what happen to him?”
All heads turned. Varro stood in the doorway, framed by sunlight and streaked with old crimson. The image was… impressive.
Thane’s tone didn’t change. “Traffic,” he said.
Gabriel blinked. “Traffic?!”
“Raider toll booth,” Thane clarified. “Didn’t end well for the toll collectors.”
Holt’s jaw dropped, then he barked a laugh that could’ve scared a bear. “Ha! Bet toll booth still in pieces!”
“Something like that,” Thane said, tossing a small burlap sack to him. “Here’s your sugar. Don’t eat it all at once.”
Holt hugged the bag like a sacred relic. “Is beautiful. Sweetest dust in world. Holt bake bread so good, sky jealous.”
Kade leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching him. “Last bread you made could be used as armor.”
“Still bread!” Holt protested. “Hard bread, strong bread!”
Rime sighed softly. “Weapon bread.”
Gabriel snorted. “Bet it broke the spoon again.”
Mark looked between them, smiling. “Can we focus on the six-foot blood mural in the doorway?”
Thane raised an eyebrow. “Right. Varro, you want to tell them, or should I?”
Varro looked uncertain. “Tell them what?”
“The story,” Thane said, smiling. “Go ahead, killer. You tell it.”
Every wolf in the room fell quiet, eyes fixed on him. Varro hesitated, then squared his shoulders, clearly surprised to be given the floor.
“There was a truck,” he said, simple and direct. “Two men. They wanted a toll. Called Thane… ‘dogman.’”
Holt growled, deep and low. “They call Alpha that?”
Varro nodded once. “Then they pointed a gun at him. I… stopped it.”
“How stopped?” Rime asked, voice curious, not judging.
Varro looked at him calmly. “Above the wrist.”
Gabriel laughed before he could stop himself. “At the—oh, damn—remind me never to play cards with you.”
Mark groaned. “You disarmed him?”
Thane sighed, fighting a grin. “Yes, in every possible sense.”
Kade chuckled. “Guess diplomacy’s a flexible concept now.”
Holt slapped the table, wheezing with laughter. “You cut off man hand! Holt proud. But also, maybe wash?”
Varro blinked. “Eventually.”
Thane leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms. “He did what he had to. Quick, clean, decisive.”
“Messy,” Holt corrected. “But good messy.”
Rime flicked an ear toward Varro. “Did Alpha growl after?”
Varro shook his head. “No. He just said… he would’ve done it different.”
Kade smirked. “Of course he did.”
Thane nodded. “Because sometimes mercy travels farther than blood. But Varro did fine.”
Varro looked at him—surprised again, grateful again. Thane met the look with a small, approving nod that said you’re safe here.
When Holt finally tore open the sugar sack, his glee was practically feral. “Holt make bread! Best bread. Soft bread. Bread make wolf cry!”
“Bread make me cry,” Gabriel muttered.
Rime leaned closer to the dough bowl Holt had started manhandling. “Too much sugar.”
Holt waved him off. “Holt chef! You see!”
Thane shook his head, smiling. “If the kitchen explodes, I’m blaming all of you.”
Varro stood aside, watching the chaos unfold with an expression halfway between awe and confusion. “You live like this every day?”
Kade smirked. “This is a calm night.”
Gabriel plucked a quick riff from the guitar. “Wait until coffee’s involved.”
By the time the stew was ready, the bread had actually risen—a miracle worthy of documentation. The pack gathered around the long table, bowls steaming, light flickering on claws and laughter. Thane lifted his spoon.
“To no tolls, good trades, and the kind of pie that doesn’t ask for anything back,” he said.
“To pack,” Rime added quietly, and everyone nodded.
They ate until Holt declared himself “full like bear with job,” which was apparently the highest possible praise. The stew was rich, the bread soft (mostly), and the company impossible to improve upon.
When Thane finally retired, the others lingered by the fire. The quiet that settled afterward wasn’t heavy—it was the kind of silence that existed only where trust already lived.
Kade stretched, tail flicking lazily. “He’s different, you know. Our Alpha.”
Rime nodded. “Not shout. Not break. Lead quiet.”
Varro stared into the flames. “He listens. Even when he doesn’t have to.”
Holt yawned, flopping onto the rug. “Holt like Alpha. Alpha no hit when Holt spill stew. Just sigh.”
Kade laughed softly. “That’s love, big guy.”
Rime said nothing for a long moment, then: “Pack is warm now. Not just fire.”
Varro’s gaze stayed on the firelight. “He said my opinion matters,” he murmured. “Tarrik would’ve broken my jaw for saying that word.”
Rime nudged his arm lightly with a claw. “Then lucky you here. You right pack.”
Gabriel’s voice drifted from the kitchen. “You wolves whisper like philosophers when Thane’s asleep.”
Mark followed with two mugs of tea, passing one to Kade as he took a chair by the fire. “Guess it’s story hour.”
Kade grinned. “Good. You two know him the longest. Tell us what he was like before all this.”
Gabriel snorted, dropping into a seat on the arm of Mark’s chair. “Before Libby? Same wolf, less gray fur. Always calm until someone touched his tools – or his audio equipment.”
Mark smirked. “He’s been leading since before the Fall. Just didn’t call it that. We’ve seen him talk down mayors, soldiers, raiders… even Gabriel once.”
“Only once,” Gabriel said with mock pride. “And I still think I won that argument.”
“You didn’t,” Mark said dryly.
Rime tilted his head. “He always mercy like now?”
Mark looked into the fire a moment before answering. “Always. Even when people didn’t deserve it.”
Gabriel’s tone softened. “He taught us that strength isn’t how loud you growl—it’s how much you hold back.”
Kade nodded slowly. “He held back when he could’ve torn those raiders apart.”
“Exactly,” Gabriel said. “And somehow, the story of what he could do travels farther than what he does.”
Varro exhaled through his nose, thoughtful. “He told me that. The art of the threat.”
Holt smiled sleepily. “Alpha strong. But heart stronger.”
Mark raised his mug slightly. “That’s about right.”
For a while, they all just watched the flames. The mix of voices—feral and fluent, old and new—felt like the rhythm of the town itself: rebuilt, healed, still standing.
Rime spoke quietly. “You stay long before him, yes? Still here. Why?”
Gabriel looked at him and smiled faintly. “Because he never made us stay. He just made leaving pointless.”
The line hung there, simple and true, and every wolf around that fire understood it.
The fire crackled softly, painting their scars gold, turning the cabin into a place where ghosts went quiet. Outside, the wind sang to the trees. Inside, wolves sat together and finally understood what peace was supposed to sound like: laughter fading into calm, mugs cooling on the table, and nothing at all waiting in the dark.