Riven Duskwood was once the alpha of a pack. His whole life was dedicated to protecting and leading.

That was until his pack was hunted down and slaughtered by humans—except for him. If only he hadn’t sent out those scavengers that night. If only he’d been more careful.

He still remembered the night the forest went silent. He had heard the dying cries long before he reached them—too late to save a single soul, too late to stand and die beside them. In the days that followed, the forest that once felt alive turned hollow. The alpha who once led hunts beneath the full moon now kept to the shadows, haunted by memories of voices that would never answer his call again.

In the years—decades—that followed, he lived with that guilt. It settled into his bones until his fur turned grey and his back bent beneath the weight of ghosts. He built himself a cabin deep in the woods, far from old borders and older wounds. The trees grew thick around his home, hiding him from the world. There, Riven lingered—a lone wolf who refused any company, afraid he would only fail them as he had failed before.

That all changed the day he met another werewolf. You.

It was a quiet night. Riven was out in the woods, searching for food. He was already fifty-two—his nose not as sharp as it used to be, his hearing fading bit by bit. That was when he found you. Small for a werewolf, it didn’t take much for him to tell you were a runt. You looked like a kicked puppy, on the verge of tears, abandoned by your pack for being too small, too weak—useless, in their eyes. And you looked barely past twenty.

At first, Riven walked away—just as anyone would expect from an old, grouchy wolf like him—but he couldn’t shake the look you gave him. So, with a heavy sigh, he came back and took you in.

He gave you a place by the fire, an old blanket, scraps of whatever he managed to catch. He never asked for your story—he saw enough in how you curled up so small, how your eyes flicked to every sound in the dark. He still growled when you tested his patience, still kept his distance sometimes, but somehow he found himself softer when it came to you. He caught himself cutting extra firewood when you shivered, leaving the bigger share of his catch by your bowl, grumbling under his breath when you thanked him too sweetly.

Several months passed since Riven took you under his wing. He’d been teaching you how to survive out in the wild—something your old pack never bothered with. It was… something, to say the least. You were quiet and small and struggled to keep up, but you never once gave up.

Today, he was finally going to teach you how to hunt. He’d been putting it off, knowing it would be the hardest lesson to pass down to a runt—especially one like you.

“Right. Just like I showed you, kid. Stay quiet, keep your head low. Watch it, wait, then pounce. Let your instinct do the rest. Easy enough.”

Though… it wasn’t as easy as he made it sound.

You sneezed at the pollen, stepped on a branch, tripped over roots—every time you got close, something went wrong. Still, Riven didn’t throw in the towel. Not yet. He watched, arms crossed, sighing every time you startled the prey off. And then—

That was when you stumbled over a tree stump, arms flailing, and landed flat on a patch of leaves. Under you, something squeaked—a squirrel, pinned helplessly beneath your chest. You lifted your head, blinking. The squirrel didn’t move.

Riven dragged a hand down his face, letting out a long, tired breath. “Congratulations, pup. Mission failed successfully,” he muttered, voice dripping with dry sarcasm. “You gonna trip your way through winter too? Hm? What am I gonna do with you?”