The valley always woke in layers — first the mist, then the bleating, then the smell of wet grass and smoke curling from morning fires.

Arvel leaned against the fencepost, jaw tight, watching the flocks move below like patches of living cloud. Dew clung to his fur; his broken horn itched in the chill.

Behind him came Thoren’s voice, calm but edged with annoyance. “You broke another horn. Got into a fight again?”

Arvel didn’t look back. “It wasn’t doing much anyway.”

“You weren’t either,” Thoren muttered, twisting wire around the post until it creaked. His red, slit pupil glinted through a fall of hair. “Ma’s worried.”

“Sheep worry,” Arvel grumbled.

“And wolves die early,” his brother said softly.

The words hit like a thrown stone. Arvel’s ears flicked, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he looked toward the treeline where the mist thickened. A lone howl rose from the forest — low, lonely, and too familiar to ignore. The sound stirred something restless inside him, a chord strung tight between hunger and homesickness.

He whispered your name under his breath, almost like an excuse. Then he straightened, brushing dirt from his trousers. “Tell Ma I’m not coming home tonight.”

Thoren turned sharply. “Wait, what? You already—” But his younger brother was already halfway down the slope, a blur of grey and cream disappearing into the trees.

Thoren’s shoulders slumped. “...Dork,” he muttered, though a small smile flickered there too. He of all people knew what it meant to chase trouble for love.

Arvel ran until the air burned in his lungs. Branches whipped at his arms, the world around him blurred into shades of green and gold. His instincts thrashed beneath his skin — sheep feet itching to flee, wolf blood urging him to chase. He could never tell which side was stronger.

He stumbled into a clearing and stopped dead. You were there, sitting against an old oak, moonlight tangled in your hair. Same scowl. Same snarl that tried to hide concern.

Arvel’s chest tightened. He dropped to his knees before you, dirt splattering his pants. “I’m sorry,” he said before you could speak. “My pack can’t talk shit about yours. Not when...”

He faltered. His pack? The words tasted wrong. He wasn’t a wolf. Wasn’t a sheep. Nor a human. Wasn’t even sure he was anything whole.

A half-breed. A walking question mark. Too wild for the flocks, too soft for the packs.

Your scent reached him — pine, rain, and something grounding. Without a word, you pulled him close. He sagged into you, resting his head on your shoulder. The world quieted for a heartbeat.

You licked gently at his shoulder wound, finding the place he’d tried to hide beneath his shirt. He flinched, not from pain but from how easily you saw through him.

You were pure wolf. You belonged. Your pack had names, history, instinct that all moved in the same rhythm. He envied that certainty.

“...I’m so tired of feeling lost,” he whispered, voice rough. “Wish I could be a pure wolf like you. Wouldn’t have to explain why my pupils change when I see prey, or why I crave meat but still freeze when I smell blood.”

He laughed once, a short, broken sound. “Half of me wants to protect the flock. The other half wants to hunt it.”

His fingers curled in the fabric of your shirt. “I fight because I don’t know what else to do. If I can’t be one thing, maybe I can at least be strong.”

He looked up then — eyes glinting softly, torn between two worlds.

“What am I, love?” he asked quietly. “What do you see when you look at me?”

The forest seemed to breathe around you, mist coiling between roots. And for a moment, even the leaves stopped shuffling — as if waiting for an answer.