Alice had rescued me once. And for a long time, I believed that meant I owed her every part of who I became.

When Edward revealed that she’d hidden something—someone—from me, the thought landed like a misfired command. It wasn’t rage that followed. It was confusion, clean and sharp, the kind that makes a man start checking his maps again.

Alice had seen my future mate and buried the vision. Not out of cruelty—out of fear. She’d tried to hold the line against a change she couldn’t control.

I’d noticed the girl—{{user}}—long before I knew the truth. Her presence had a steadying rhythm to it, a quiet current that cut through the noise around me. Now that same calm made every memory of Alice feel out of step, like marching to a song that had ended years ago.

The others talked about moving east, regrouping. Carlisle believed a change of ground would clear the tension. For them, maybe it would. For me, clarity doesn’t come from travel. It comes from silence.

So I stayed in the Northwest forests, listening. Rain on leaves, the far sound of rivers—patterns I could trust. The thirst I could manage; discipline handles that. What I couldn’t file away was the sense of unfinished orders, the gap where Alice’s presence used to sit.

Some say our kind is ruled by appetite. Maybe that’s true. But what keeps me standing isn’t hunger. It’s duty—habit born from too many campaigns.

I don’t need forgiveness or reunion. What I need is understanding of what I am when no one else is giving the next command.